Perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed being a career woman. Perhaps somewhere buried deep inside I had some ambition. After all, I used to watch Dynasty and I always wanted to be Alexis. Alexis was style, shoulder-pads, hair, perfect make-up, long, painted nails and a string of men in love with her. And she was a great bitch who owned her own corporation. You see, I liked that idea. Although the shoulder-pads and being a bitch were a bit passé, perhaps there was still something in my love of Alexis that meant I should consider the career thing. Perhaps I could have it all, I thought. Perhaps I would like to have it all.
She wakes at six in the morning, feeling wonderfully refreshed from her sleep and dreams. She reaches out to the man beside her, who, after all this time, still fills her with desire. He smiles at her sleepily, kissing her tenderly. As happens most mornings, they make love passionately. At half past six the bedroom door opens and their two children rush in. They hug and kiss their mother and father, whom they love and by whom they do not feel at all neglected. Mother and father, wife and husband, their lives are wonderful. They go downstairs and prepare breakfast. She puts the toast on, he makes coffee; the children’s cereal had been laid out the night before. The children eat their breakfast and chat to their parents about the day ahead at school. She drinks her coffee and eats her toast while mentally planning her day. Her husband looks at her lovingly and thinks how lucky he is. At a quarter past seven she goes to take a shower and he starts to get the children ready for school. Once dressed and perfectly made up, she takes over the children and he gets ready for work.
At eight they all leave the house together, dropping the children off at school with loving kisses. Then she drives her husband to the station and she goes to her office. He is a highly successful businessman, she a highly successful businesswoman. The day is wonderful, she loves her job. She does everything she has to. Her husband phones to tell her he loves her, she does the same to him. After a very successful day in the office she leaves at half past five and drives to the station to pick up her husband at six. They discuss their respective days, he asks her advice on a problem, she gives it.
When they get home the children rush to greet them, the nanny leaves. The house is spotless, the children have done their homework, and now she prepares dinner with her husband. They have a glass of wine. Dinner is at seven, the food is home-made and healthy. It is a family affair. At eight the children are put to bed, after kissing their parents and telling them how much they love them. Then they sit down, with some wine and talk. At eleven, unable to resist each other any more they go to bed and make love for the second time that day.
***
It didn’t sound so bad, sort of the modern-day Waltons. But, then, was it attainable? The problem I had was that I still hadn’t named her job and I couldn’t think of one I’d enjoy. The second problem was, what if I couldn’t find a modern man as a husband, one who would be willing to split the home tasks? I mean, Ben wouldn’t, would he? Not ready to dismiss this idea, I called my mother.
My mother had always worked full-time, but she also took care of the house. I asked her how she managed to come home from work, cook dinner, supervise my homework and keep the house clean. She told me she just did. I then spoke to my father and asked him how come he came home from work, watched TV, went to his study and watched more TV. He asked me if I’d gone mad.
I was not convinced that although women had the chance to move into a man’s world men had accepted that the traditional roles in the home had changed. I didn’t want to have to be a superwoman. I was worried that women having it all meant women doing it all.
Perhaps here was an opportunity to create a modern day housewife, a role that would be attractive to some women, but more importantly it would be fantastically appealing for men because they would have to pay for it. I knew that not every woman wanted to be a housewife and I didn’t think they should have to, any more than I should want to be a career woman. But it would be nice if being a housewife, or wanting to be one, didn’t have a huge stigma attached to it.
The housewife gets up for the second time at about ten in the morning. She’d already got up to get her husband off to work and make his breakfast, but she then went back to bed to read the paper, or just to have a nap. She does her exercise video – must look good for her man. She then showers and dresses. She has breakfast and deals with the mail, all complex household issues, like bills, are her responsibility, and she makes sure that the household accounts are up-to-date. Her husband phones at eleven to tell her how much he loves and values her; she tells him the same.
She goes out to get the shopping. At home again, she puts it away and cleans the house. She calls her friend, who comes over for lunch. They gossip and drink lots of tea. In the afternoon her husband calls again to tell her he loves her. She bakes for the weekend, all her husband’s favourites. At four she goes to her Spanish class, which she attends twice a week; the other days she does pottery and dressmaking. She will soon be able to speak Spanish, have lots of pots and actually make a dress.
At half past five she begins to prepare dinner. She opens the wine. At seven, when her husband returns home from a hard day in the office, she puts his dinner on the table.
Now I didn’t think that sounded too dull. Liking the idea, I tried it out with Jess.
She looked at me. ‘If that’s the life you want, you really need to see Sarah’s career counsellor.’
I was upset. ‘It doesn’t have to be dressmaking,’ I tell her.
***
I returned to work with the aim of giving it one last go, and my friends gave me a reprieve. They went back to their lives and left me to mine. The good thing was that Jess had met a man and said she really liked him. His name was Sam, he had a job in corporate finance, whatever that was, and he was very, very driven. Jess had invited him round for drinks. Unlike Sophie, who needed her friends’ approval, Jess wanted her friends to intimidate her men early on in the relationship.
He arrived and seemed nice, friendly, not too flashy. He was tall, with very short, neat hair that seemed to be sort of dark grey. I thought he probably looked older than thirty. He asked the usual what-do-you-do-for-a-living? questions, and everyone gave him their replies. He was interested and asked polite questions, then it came to me.
‘I’m working until I get married and become a housewife. Of course I need a husband and a house first, but as soon as I find them my working days are history.’
‘Really?’ He looked surprised. He continued, ‘That’s great, it really is. God, I wish more women felt like you.’ Jess lost all the colour in her face. Sam obviously didn’t know her very well, and it looked as though he might not get to know her any better.
‘You don’t mean that,’ Jess said.
‘I do. I think that if a woman wants to stay at home, looking after the house and the children, that’s lovely. When I marry I’d like my wife to stay at home – definitely when we have children.’
Jess went purple, Sophie looked ready to do a runner and Sarah drank her wine in one.
I decided that as this was my fault, I’d try to defuse the situation. ‘Sam, I’ll marry you.’
Everyone laughed, apart from Jess who was getting more purple by the minute.
‘How could you be such a pig? God, men like you should be made illegal. I don’t believe you. What if your woman doesn’t want to be kept barefoot and pregnant? This is 1999. Even if Ruthie doesn’t realise it. And you have no right to expect women to stay at home. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re a bloody stupid old-fashioned tosser.’ She was screaming.
Sam laughed, which wasn’t a good idea because just as it looked like Jess couldn’t get any more purple she did. ‘Jess, I just said that I’d like my wife to stay at home. I don’t expect you to. We don’t all have to share the same views, and we can’t all embrace the modern world. Anyway, sugar, I think it’s great that women are doing so well, I really do. I just don’t want to marry a career woman.’ He flashed her his best
smile.
It didn’t work. ‘No, of course you don’t. You don’t want to marry a career woman because she won’t have enough time to dote on you, wait on you hand and foot, take care of your every sodding whim. You are just a typical lazy, egotistical, ignorant, chauvinistic, bloody-minded male. I want you to leave,’ Jess replied.
Sam left. Which was really no surprise as, in his place, I would have left too.
We all looked at Jess, who was returning to her normal colour. She had probably overreacted, and if Sam had been dating me she would have been quite calm. In her eyes, though, Jess was dating a Neanderthal. That was the worst thing in the world to her: she was dating someone who didn’t understand how important her career was to her and, even though they weren’t close to getting married, he had committed the worst crime. He wanted someone who was everything Jess wasn’t. He wanted someone like me.
‘What a wanker,’ she said finally.
‘Are you all right?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Jess burst into tears, and she never does that. ‘I shouldn’t have made such a big deal. You know how I feel, but I shouldn’t have made such a fool of myself.’
‘Jess, you didn’t make a fool of yourself, I think Sam looked the fool there.’ I gave her a tissue.
‘Did you see his face when you called him an egotistical, chauvinistic whatever? He looked really embarrassed’ Sophie laughed.
‘I quite liked him,’ Jess admitted.
‘I know, hon, but, well, I think it’s obvious you weren’t really suited,’ Sarah said.
‘I wish I’d found him first.’ I laughed. Everyone laughed.
‘It’s not too late. I’m sure if you run you can catch him,’ Jess said. We laughed more. ‘Why are men so difficult?’ she asked.
I thought about it. ‘I think we made them that way.’
Jess was not upset for long, as Jess never is, but she did say that she would be more careful about whom she dated in future. I said I would too, but as I never met any men there was really no need. My social life was as interesting as Peter Stringfellow: not at all interesting. I needed to go out more.
My social life in London had consisted of a date with Simon, a couple of nights out in the Sun in Clapham and a lunchtime drink with Cardigan Brian. That was it. No wild parties, not a single club. It was pitiful. I was twenty-one years old and my social life was dead. I decided to do something about it. I told my friends they had to take me out. The only times I spent with them was when they were in and we’d drink wine and eat pizza. We never went out, really: they reserved that privilege for their other friends. To persuade them, I sank to new depths of emotional blackmail. I told them how being in all the time was making me miss Ben more. How I hadn’t met anyone new in ages so how was I expected to get over him? How my work didn’t provide me with a social life the way theirs did. Then I cried and begged, so they agreed to reserve the next Saturday night for me. I thanked them profusely, and felt that at least I had something to look forward to for once.
***
Ingredients for a girls’ night out: take four girls, some sexy (but not tarty) clothes, a lot of make-up and a bottle of wine to get ready with. Mix it all together and you get me, Sarah, Sophie and Jess ready to hit London. We all felt differently about the purpose of a proper girls’ night out (apart from the fact they were only doing it because they felt sorry for me). It wasn’t exactly ‘tarts on the town’. I wanted to find a man, but I always wanted to find a man; Sarah wanted to remind herself that she wasn’t missing out on anything by staying single; Jess liked to laugh at everyone, and Sophie just liked to be with us. For me it was the biggest event in ages.
‘Jessie, can I borrow your little black top?’ I was intent on wearing my favourite blue hipsters, and I needed a little black top to reveal what cleavage I had. Jess’s top provided cleavage.
‘OK, but, Ru, can I borrow your satin shirt?’ Jess had decided to wear a hip-hugging velvet skirt, so short it was almost obscene. I had to admit that my satin shirt, which was deep red, looked pretty hot with her big brown eyes.
‘Deal. Sophie, can I use your new eye-shadow?’ I ran into the bathroom where Sophie was expertly applying her make-up. She looked sensational in tight cropped black pants and a little cropped top. We mock-fought for space in front of the mirror as I took out the blusher brush.
‘Yup. Have you got any mascara?’
I passed it to her. ‘Here you go.’
We curled, blushed, lip-lined and generally slapped on the makeup.
‘Sarah, have you opened the wine yet?’
Sarah appeared wearing her uniform baggy black trousers and white blouse. She had swapped her glasses for contact lenses but was wearing very little make-up. ‘I’m just doing it.’ She blew me a kiss as she swept downstairs.
I followed, trying to stay upright in my high heels, Sophie followed in her flatties, and Jess clomped behind us in her new black mules.
‘Well, I’m ready and it only took me half an hour,’ I said, as I flopped down at the kitchen table.
‘What about the hour you spent in the bathroom? What were you doing? Shaving your legs and armpits in case you get lucky tonight?’ Jess giggled as she took her first sip of wine.
‘Don’t be mean, Jess. I’m sure Ruthie isn’t the sort of girl who lets a little body hair get in the way of true love.’ Sarah giggled and poured another glass for Sophie.
‘Will both of you stop taking the piss? I’m getting some more wine.’ I went to refill our glasses. ‘Sarah, if you meet a really gorgeous fellow tonight, will you give up your vow of celibacy?’ I asked.
‘No. I told you, I’m not getting involved. Men and sex bore me, and before you say anything, I’m not turning into a lesbian. Living with you lot has put me off women too.’
‘Ha, ha. I don’t know how you manage it. I mean, I don’t sleep with men because I’m still heartbroken but, well, you could,’ I said.
‘You don’t sleep with men because you don’t know any,’ Jess laughed, ‘and not everyone is sex crazed.’
‘I am not sex crazed.’!
‘Yes, you are,’ everyone said.
Sophie stood up.
‘Wow, Soph, you look gorgeous. It’s a shame you’re already taken.’
Sophie giggled. ‘Yes, I am.’
I wished she would try harder not to look smug.
‘I have a feeling I may meet someone tonight,’ Jess said, the Sam incident well and truly forgotten.
‘I hope I do,’ I agreed.
‘I think we should go before I realise what a bad idea this really is.’ Sarah grabbed her coat and, after applying the last layer of lipstick, we left.
***
Jess had said that we were going to The Cellar Bar. No one dared argue: since her life in PR had started, Jess only went out in Fulham, South Kensington and Chelsea. We got there at nine, it was downstairs and looked a bit dark and dingy, but quite funky and littered with men. We ordered drinks. Then I did the thing I always did at university. ‘I’m just going for a pee,’ I said. ‘Liar. You’re going to check out the men,’ Sarah said. ‘OK, I’ll come with you,’ Jess said, and off we went. We did a subtle circuit of the bar and I spotted a group of four who didn’t look so bad. I tried to catch their eyes, but they seemed intent on not looking my way. ‘Jess, what about those four over there?’
She looked. ‘Where?’
‘Over there – keep your voice down.’
‘What – those four? Don’t you think they look a bit young?’
I looked again. ‘No younger than us.’
‘Oh, I just thought I might try to find an older man tonight.’ We made our way back to the others and I saw Jess’s ideal man. ‘Look, Jess, at the bar, he must be at least fifty.’
‘Piss off, Ru.’
‘What have you found?’ Sarah asked.
‘Four lovely men over there, but Jess wants Granddad at the bar.’ Jess hit me. We had a couple more drinks.
Jess took the piss out
of every outfit that every girl was wearing. ‘Oh, she shouldn’t wear that with her figure,’ she said, about an overweight girl in knee-length boots and a mini skirt. ‘God, if she had real friends they’d never let her go out in public like that.’ I looked at Jess, all hips and boobs, and thought that maybe we should have said something to her. Well, if we’d lost the will to live. Then she pointed to four girls who looked about six and were wearing tiny little dresses. ‘You need to wear a cardy with those.’
We all laughed.
Then I decided it was time to make our move. ‘Let’s go and stand near those guys.’ They all followed me as I stalked my prey. When trying to attract the attention of men, while still being subtle, you can do one of two things. The first is to sound as if you’re the funniest person on earth: you laugh a lot and get your friends to laugh a lot too. The trouble is my friends refused to do this. The other is to make Sophie stand somewhere prominent. In about five seconds flat she is surrounded by men. My plan never failed.
The four boys made their way over and the nicest-looking went straight up to Sophie. As she wasn’t interested it was a shame, but then I got to talk to a guy called Andy, who was good-looking in a sweet kind of way. He was quite tall – well, taller than me – he was slim, or skinny, really, he had nice short brown hair, brown eyes, and he was definitely under thirty. He didn’t tell me what he did for a living, so I couldn’t rate him on the job scale but, then, he didn’t ask what I did, which pleased me. Jess was talking to another guy who looked terrified, laughing and saying, ‘Fab,’ a lot, and Sarah had terrified the last one, who had slunk off to the bar. Sophie made her excuses, and she and Sarah went to dance on the tiny dance-floor. After a while Jess left the guy she was talking to and went to join Sarah and Sophie. He slunk to the defeated corner with his other friends. I was getting on well with Andy. I was at the very drunk and very flirty-bordering-on-sluttish-behaviour stage, standing very close, talking in my best sexy voice and giving my come-to-bed looks, which seemed to be working, he seemed absolutely overawed by me.
Rubber Gloves or Jimmy Choos? Page 8