‘You can’t go around treating women like they’re your possessions,’ I snap at Dylan now. ‘And a feminist is not someone who hates men, for crying out loud. A feminist is someone who believes in equal opportunities for men and women. It’s the opposite of hatred. True feminism is about love and respect for your fellow humans.’
‘Preach it, Mum.’ Scarlet gives me the first smile I’ve seen from her in days and I feel the fire of righteousness burn in the pit of my belly.
‘If I thought that I had raised a son who, however misguidedly, propagates the myth that feminism is against men, then I would be very disappointed.’ I stare pointedly at Dylan. When he was small, the very mention of me being disappointed was enough to reduce him to tears of dismay.
But now he just gives me an infuriating grin and turns away, pulling his hoodie over his head.
‘I’m deadly serious,’ I warn him. ‘I thought you were smarter than – oh.’
Dylan turns back to look at me and my eyes fall to the slogan printed across the front of what is obviously a new T-shirt. Today is clearly the day for statement-making in the Thompson house.
‘Zoe got me a present,’ he tells us. ‘She said that I’m the only man she’s ever met with the credentials to wear it.’
‘You’re a boy, not a man,’ I mutter.
‘Nice!’ Scarlet takes a step forward and offers Dylan a high-five, her indignation forgotten. ‘You might want to tell Zoe to buy from a better website next time though. There’s only one m in feminist.’
‘It’s still a lovely thought,’ I add quickly, desperate to prevent another outburst. ‘And “This Is What A Femminininist Looks Like” is a great message. I’m very proud of you, Dylan.’
‘You thought I was a raving misogynist a minute ago,’ he smirks at me. ‘You were pretty quick to judge me there, Mum.’
I have had quite enough now.
‘Go and tell your dad that he needs to finish cooking the supper,’ I tell Scarlet. ‘This femminininist is going to the pub.’
I throw down my oven gloves and march towards the door, only pausing to fling my final shot. ‘And if you want the kitchen floors scrubbing then the pair of you can do it yourselves.’
And then I exit, ignoring the confused look on Dylan’s face and the smug look on Scarlet’s. I never did finish the conversation about her wearing the T-shirt to school; that is Nick’s problem now. He can deal with militant feminism and badly spelt feminism and under-cooked lasagne while I drink Prosecco with Cassie.
Chapter 23
I pull open the doors of the pub, searching the room for my friend. It’s busy this evening, but I spot her at our usual table. Pushing my way through the assembled throng, I apologise as I step on feet and shoulder-barge past people clutching their wine glasses as if their lives depend on it. It obviously isn’t just me that’s had a stressful week.
Sitting down opposite Cassie, I allow myself a huge sigh.
‘God, it’s good to be out. Have you been waiting long?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not long enough,’ she tells me, her eyes flicking over my shoulder. ‘I could have happily sat here for another two hours, enjoying the view.’
I twist my head, trying to act casually. I clearly need to work on my sleuth skills, though, because the moment that I turn to look, an incredibly gorgeous man at the table behind me gives me a cheery wave.
I spin back to Cassie, my cheeks burning. ‘I think he’s noticed you,’ I tell her. ‘I might have given you away.’
She smiles. ‘I think I might have given myself away,’ she says. ‘When I wrote my phone number down on his hand before you arrived.’
My mouth drops open. ‘You didn’t? Cassie! What if he’s an axe murderer or something?’
Cassie sips her wine and gives me an appraising look. ‘How many axe murderers have you ever met, Hannah?’
I’m about to take her point but then she ruins it with her next comment. ‘And anyway, have you actually looked at him? He’s hot!’
I slam my glass down with more force than I intended. ‘That’s exactly the problem,’ I say, as she looks at me in surprise. ‘We’re conditioned to accept bad behaviour from beautiful people.’ I wave my hand in the air, gesturing behind me. ‘If he was ugly as sin, with a massive nose and spots, you wouldn’t think it was okay that he could be a potential axe murderer, would you?’
Cassie laughs. ‘Better a good-looking axe murderer than an ugly one,’ she says.
Behind us, there’s the sound of someone clearing his throat. I turn to see the man in question looking slightly flustered.
‘I’m sorry, ladies, but I couldn’t help overhearing and I just thought I’d confirm that I am not, and have never been, an axe murderer. Or any other kind of murderer, for that matter. I’m an accountant, if that helps at all.’
‘Whatever.’ Cassie waves her hand in the air, dismissing both his reassurance and his presence. He’s annoyed her by taking our conversation seriously and I know that in the rare event that he does try to contact her, she’ll have blocked his number before you can say ‘serial mood killer’.
She turns to me. ‘What’s got you all riled up, then? Bad week?’
I’m about to answer when a sudden noise behind us makes me turn. Over by the pool table a group of young men are jeering at one of their friends, who apparently has just suffered the indignity of being beaten by a female acquaintance.
‘Thrashed by a girl!’ mocks his mate. ‘She owned you, you loser.’
‘That is what’s got me riled up,’ I say, glaring at the men. ‘When did everything become about gender?’
Cassie sits back in her seat and looks at me in disbelief. ‘Are you serious, Hannah? It’s always been about gender. And sex. Those two things are the root of absolutely everything.’
I shake my head. ‘Not true. Some things have got nothing to do with that.’
Cassie grins and leans forward. ‘Name one thing,’ she says. ‘Name one thing that doesn’t somehow feature gender or sex.’
I think for a second, noticing again the good-looking man that Cassie propositioned. ‘Murder.’
She snorts. ‘Do you and Nick not watch Netflix? Every single murder is about sex. Someone isn’t getting it or someone is getting it with the wrong person or someone can’t get it and so kills everyone else in a bout of frustration.’
She sits back, pleased with herself. ‘Try again.’
‘Supermarkets.’ I smirk at her. ‘Try telling me that gender and sex is the foundation that our local supermarket is built upon.’
Cassie rolls her eyes. ‘That’s too easy. Okay, what ratio of men to women do you see on the checkouts?’
‘There’s probably more women than men, but that might just be job preference,’ I tell her. ‘It doesn’t mean that the supermarket is based on sex.’
‘And how many women do you see patrolling around in charge with those dinky little headsets on? As many as the men?’
I shake my head reluctantly. ‘Probably not.’
‘And how many supermarket employees are currently shagging other supermarket employees, do you think? That’s how the system works, you know. It’s the only way to get to the top.’
I laugh. ‘You are being very unfair. And for your information, I have never been asked to sleep my way to the top.’
Cassie smiles sweetly at me. ‘And that is why you’re a lowly English teacher who only works three days a week.’
I pull a face at her and take another gulp of wine. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like it is now when we were younger. I didn’t have to endure endless abuse from boys about whether I was up for it or not.’
Cassie is unimpressed with my argument. ‘So you never got wolf-whistled or beeped by car horns when you were walking to school, then.’
‘Of course I did. And I hated it. But Scarlet has been telling me all about what goes on at school and it just seems different. It’s all more personal.’
‘And that’s why it seems worse to you now, Ha
nnah. Because you’re looking at it through the eyes of your daughter and it hurts much more than it did when it was happening to you.’ Cassie grimaces. ‘But you’re right about one thing. It is different now. Kids can access whatever they like online and every teenager thinks they have to be a porn star if they’re going to get any attention.’ She slurps her wine. ‘Bloody hell, it was all I could do to tame the hair on my head when I was sixteen years old. If someone had suggested that I had to do something with the rest of it then I think I’d have chucked myself under a bus.’
We sit in silence for a moment, contemplating a lost existence where Brazilians were people who lived in South America and a time where, if someone had offered us a vajazzle, we’d have been expecting some kind of Eighties ice-lolly; something akin to the Nobbly Bobbly or Sparkle, or maybe even the Screwball.
‘So, how’s the writing going?’ asks Cassie after a while. ‘Have you written anything juicy yet?’
I pick up my glass and twirl the stem between my fingers.
‘I’m struggling a bit,’ I confess. ‘I don’t know how E.L. James wrote one book, never mind a trilogy. Seriously, I’m never going to let anyone say a bad word about her again. The woman is clearly a genius.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Cassie waves her empty glass in the air. ‘Have you got writer’s block or something?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not that. I can write the words but I just can’t get into the headspace of my female character. She’s a bit of an enigma, to be honest. Do you want another drink?’
‘Are bears Catholic?’ Cassie holds out her glass. ‘But don’t go thinking that this conversation is over. I need to hear details about your enigmatic main character!’
I queue up at the bar, thinking about what to tell Cassie. I haven’t shared any of my writing with anyone so far, not even Nick. I’m trying to convince myself that this isn’t because I’m embarrassed about it, but I’m failing. This is the perfect time to talk about the characters and the plot and get a bit of feedback from someone who, let’s face it, almost undoubtedly has more knowledge about this kind of thing than I do.
‘Okay, so the main female is called Bella Rose,’ I say, launching right into it the instant that the drinks are on the table. ‘And she’s your typical erotic-fiction heroine. Shy, fragile and delicate.’
‘Sounds okay so far.’ Cassie gives me an encouraging look. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well, Bella Rose is madly attracted to a stud owner called Daxx,’ I explain. ‘That’s with two xs obviously, because he’s from Wyoming.’
Cassie squints a bit at this, which is marginally off-putting, but I tell myself that it could just be the wine hitting her system.
‘And this attraction is a problem because Daxx is aloof and arrogant.’
Cassie starts ripping pieces off the beermat. ‘That sounds like the plot of every erotic story ever written,’ she tells me. ‘Still not seeing the enigma issue.’
‘It is the plot of every erotic story,’ I agree, feeling a happy glow spread through me. ‘Do you really think my book sounds like all the others out there?’
Cassie screws her face up. ‘Yeah,’ she says slowly. ‘Sorry, Hannah. I don’t want to be rude.’
I laugh. ‘Don’t be daft! It’s good that it’s the same. That’s what the readers want, isn’t it? The same old story with slightly different characters. I must be doing something right if that’s what you think!’
‘I don’t know if that’s entirely accurate,’ says Cassie. ‘But what do I know? I teach Chemistry. So tell me why this Bella Rose character is causing you such grief.’
‘It’s because I just don’t get it. Daxx is into some weird, erotic stuff and she’s just supposed to flip from being sweet and cute and innocent one moment to porn-star princess in the next.’ I take a sip of wine. ‘It’s not very likely, is it?’
Cassie sits up straight. ‘What weird stuff is Daxx into?’ she asks. ‘Come on, Hannah. Give me details.’
‘I mean, it’s the logistics of it all that’s bothering me as much as anything else,’ I say, ignoring her last comment. I’m not going to be tricked into talking about sex in the middle of the pub. ‘If I walked into some stables and there was a gorgeous guy mucking out the horses and he propositioned me to frolic in the hay, I might be a bit tempted, but I’d need to consider all the variables first. Like, has the aforementioned gorgeous man had a chance to have a thorough wash? And is the hay fresh or is there the possibility that some horse manure might get on my hair?’
I look at Cassie in frustration. ‘And what about protection? Is one to assume that all gorgeous men muck out stables with contraception in their back pockets? Or does a little STD among friends not really count, as long as the man is hot?’
There is a brief moment of silence before Cassie starts laughing. Not a gentle, encouraging I-feel-your-pain kind of laughter either. No, this is a rip-roaring, throat-gurgling howl of laughter that echoes around the pub, causing most people to pause in their conversations and stare at our table where I am rapidly turning red.
‘You’re too funny, Hannah!’ she splutters. ‘The whole point of erotic fiction is that it isn’t supposed to be real. It’s fantasy. Escapism. Bodice-ripping action instead of some bloke bending over to take off his socks and giving you an unwelcome display of his arse!’
‘Well, it seems stupid if you ask me.’ I take another sip of wine and glare at her over the top of my glass. ‘And fake. Women don’t just relinquish their principles for the first gorgeous man they meet. Bella Rose is a fraud – if she was as naive as she makes out then she’d run a mile from someone like Daxx.’
Cassie gives me yet another uninterpretable look. ‘But you’re the one writing her,’ she says slowly. ‘Change the way she behaves if you don’t like it. Give her some balls.’
I put my glass down, slightly misjudging the distance and crashing it onto the table. ‘If only it were that easy,’ I say sadly, shaking my head. ‘You don’t understand, Cassie. When you unleash these characters they take on lives of their own.’ I gaze across the room, trying to focus on the clock above the bar. ‘It’s as if I, the author, have given birth to them and now I have to let them tell their own story.’
‘Are you serious?’ Cassie slams her hand down, getting my attention back on her. ‘You’ll be wafting around in a floaty kaftan next, wearing flowers in your hair and joining Adele and Miriam on their self-improvement Inset day. That is the biggest load of cock I have ever heard.’
‘Do you think that Daxx would have a big one?’ I ask, prompted by her insult. This is another issue that has been bothering me.
‘A big what, Hannah?’ Cassie challenges. ‘Come on, you can’t expect anyone to take you seriously as an erotic writer if you can’t even say the word.’
I can say the word. I can say all the words. I am absolutely not a prude. In fact, I’ve always taken great pride in teaching our kids the proper words for parts of the body. No ridiculous slang terms in our house, thank you very much. I have a degree in Biology. I call a spade a spade; or in this case, I call a vagina a vagina.
I eyeball Cassie. ‘I’ve been wondering if Daxx would have a big penis.’ I enunciate the final word so that it rings out clearly around the pub.
Cassie snorts into her drink, spluttering wine onto the table.
‘Please tell me that isn’t what you’re writing in your book? For the love of all that is Mills and Boon, please don’t do that to me.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’ I adopt a haughty tone. ‘I am an English teacher now, Cassie. I have absolutely no problem with utilising the proper words for things.’
Cassie clasps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head.
‘Mmmmm-mmmm-mmmm,’ she mumbles. I think she’s probably had quite enough to drink.
‘You’re going to have to be slightly more eloquent if you want me to understand you,’ I say, stumbling a tiny bit over the word ‘eloquent’ because my tongue suddenly seems
to have doubled in size. ‘What words of wisdom are you trying to offer me on my writing career?’
Cassie moves her hand, her eyes glinting wickedly.
‘I said, nobody wants to read about penises and vaginas and mammary glands, Hannah. Which presumably is what your book is filled with!’
I shake my head violently and then instantly regret it. Once the room has stopped spinning, I fix her with my most serious look. It’s time to deal with this ridiculousness once and for all.
‘What is the actual plural of “penis”?’ I ask. ‘Is it “penises”?’
‘Or it could be “peni”?’ offers Cassie. ‘Like fungi.’
‘I think it should be “pena”,’ I tell her. ‘Although that does sound a bit like a type of pasta.’
‘Ooh, ooh, I’ve got it,’ cries Cassie. ‘You know that “goose” becomes “geese”? What if one penis becomes many “poonis”?’
I start sniggering. ‘I’d rather deal with a penis than a poonis. No matter how many of them there were.’
Cassie nods sagely. ‘Sadly, I have never been in a situation where I have needed to refer to multiple members of male genitalia. But if I ever am, I will definitely be referring to the gaggle of poonis in the room.’
The sound of our cackling reverberates around the pub. Once we’ve calmed down, Cassie gestures to the man behind the bar to bring more wine but he shakes his head, signifying that our evening has come to an end.
We stagger out into the cold night air and start scanning the street for a taxi. We strike it lucky when Geoff pulls up alongside the kerb. We’ve known Geoff for years – he used to be the school caretaker until he decided that fixing toilet doors and unblocking drains on an hourly basis was not his life’s passion and took up cab-driving instead.
Once inside, we huddle together on the back seat and try to get warm. Geoff is listening to Radio One and the sound of manic dance tunes makes my head spin, so I lean back against the seat and watch the streetlights flash by: my own private rave.
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