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Authors: Alison Walsh
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nonsense, please. Why can’t we just be equals?’
His eyes flash. ‘Oh, be careful what you wish for, Michelle. Women’s liberation can be a dangerous thing.’
‘Oh, really? How, exactly?’ I say smartly.
‘Well, it’s obvious. Men and women aren’t made the same. They’re different for a reason. Women are born to be mothers – they’re soft and gentle and they nurture their young, not like us men – and as for politics or the factory floor, well, it’s no place for women. It’s too aggressive. Women couldn’t survive that.’
‘And there was I, thinking that you weren’t like other men,’ I say tightly, pulling my handbag onto my lap. ‘It’s because of men like you that we’re all at home, chained to the kitchen sink. It’s because of men like you that we have no hope or expectation of equality,’ I spit. ‘Why shouldn’t we be doctors or astronauts or soldiers or anything else we want to be?’
‘And who’d look after the children then?’ he says, his face a mask of disapproval, before he leans back in his chair and roars with laughter.
‘You are mocking me,’ I say. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I’m going. I didn’t need to get dragged out of my class for this,’ and I pull myself upright, my chair scraping back on the floor so loudly everyone turns around to have a look. I’m about to turn around, when he grabs my hand, tight. ‘Sit down,’ he says. His expression has darkened and for a moment I feel afraid.
I have to pull myself together. ‘No,’ I retort. ‘Nobody orders me around.’
His face softens. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Michelle. Will you please sit down? I promise I won’t take the mick any more.’
Reluctantly, I perch on the edge of my chair and he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a battered-looking black velvet box. ‘Here,’ he says, pushing it across the table to me.
‘What is it?’ I look at the box as if it is dangerous somehow. He sighs and pulls it back, opening it and taking out two rings, the same rough silver, the same knobbly purple stone in the middle. ‘I promised that if I ever found you, I’d give you this,’ he said, handing me the smaller of the two. The larger one, he slipped onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring it.
I hold mine in front of me, unable to work out what exactly he’s asking me. I look at it for the longest time and the place seems to fall quiet around us.
‘Well?’ he says, taking my hand and stroking my ring finger. ‘Will you wear it?’
I know if I get the answer wrong, I’ll never see him again, but it’s a risk I have to take. I can’t let him think he’s in charge here. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, and I get back up, put the ring into my handbag and close the catch. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ And I walk out of the restaurant without turning around.
3
T hecheap Prosecco was going to June’s head, her hand clammy on the glass as the three of them bunched up on the sagging sofa in the bridal shop. Mary-Pat’s Melissa was in the middle, chattering away about bodices and dropped waists, while she and Mary-Pat sat either side of her, like anxious terriers waiting for the fox to appear.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s warm in here,’ Mary-Pat was saying, her face red, two circles of sweat under her arms. She was wearing a bright cerise T-shirt and those awful cut-off cargo pants that every middle-aged woman June saw seemed to be wearing. June fingered her cream linen jacket and carrot-leg navy trousers – she couldn’t help herself, she felt that she looked good, even at forty-one. But she put a bit of effort into it. She hadn’t resorted to anything chemical, not like some of the girls, but she looked after herself: she ate well, avoiding red meat, drank a glass of red wine every night and did Pilates three times a week. It was possibly the most boring way God ever invented of spending forty-five minutes, but it kept all of her bits in the right place, and she supposed that it was
His eyes flash. ‘Oh, be careful what you wish for, Michelle. Women’s liberation can be a dangerous thing.’
‘Oh, really? How, exactly?’ I say smartly.
‘Well, it’s obvious. Men and women aren’t made the same. They’re different for a reason. Women are born to be mothers – they’re soft and gentle and they nurture their young, not like us men – and as for politics or the factory floor, well, it’s no place for women. It’s too aggressive. Women couldn’t survive that.’
‘And there was I, thinking that you weren’t like other men,’ I say tightly, pulling my handbag onto my lap. ‘It’s because of men like you that we’re all at home, chained to the kitchen sink. It’s because of men like you that we have no hope or expectation of equality,’ I spit. ‘Why shouldn’t we be doctors or astronauts or soldiers or anything else we want to be?’
‘And who’d look after the children then?’ he says, his face a mask of disapproval, before he leans back in his chair and roars with laughter.
‘You are mocking me,’ I say. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I’m going. I didn’t need to get dragged out of my class for this,’ and I pull myself upright, my chair scraping back on the floor so loudly everyone turns around to have a look. I’m about to turn around, when he grabs my hand, tight. ‘Sit down,’ he says. His expression has darkened and for a moment I feel afraid.
I have to pull myself together. ‘No,’ I retort. ‘Nobody orders me around.’
His face softens. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Michelle. Will you please sit down? I promise I won’t take the mick any more.’
Reluctantly, I perch on the edge of my chair and he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a battered-looking black velvet box. ‘Here,’ he says, pushing it across the table to me.
‘What is it?’ I look at the box as if it is dangerous somehow. He sighs and pulls it back, opening it and taking out two rings, the same rough silver, the same knobbly purple stone in the middle. ‘I promised that if I ever found you, I’d give you this,’ he said, handing me the smaller of the two. The larger one, he slipped onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring it.
I hold mine in front of me, unable to work out what exactly he’s asking me. I look at it for the longest time and the place seems to fall quiet around us.
‘Well?’ he says, taking my hand and stroking my ring finger. ‘Will you wear it?’
I know if I get the answer wrong, I’ll never see him again, but it’s a risk I have to take. I can’t let him think he’s in charge here. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, and I get back up, put the ring into my handbag and close the catch. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ And I walk out of the restaurant without turning around.
3
T hecheap Prosecco was going to June’s head, her hand clammy on the glass as the three of them bunched up on the sagging sofa in the bridal shop. Mary-Pat’s Melissa was in the middle, chattering away about bodices and dropped waists, while she and Mary-Pat sat either side of her, like anxious terriers waiting for the fox to appear.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s warm in here,’ Mary-Pat was saying, her face red, two circles of sweat under her arms. She was wearing a bright cerise T-shirt and those awful cut-off cargo pants that every middle-aged woman June saw seemed to be wearing. June fingered her cream linen jacket and carrot-leg navy trousers – she couldn’t help herself, she felt that she looked good, even at forty-one. But she put a bit of effort into it. She hadn’t resorted to anything chemical, not like some of the girls, but she looked after herself: she ate well, avoiding red meat, drank a glass of red wine every night and did Pilates three times a week. It was possibly the most boring way God ever invented of spending forty-five minutes, but it kept all of her bits in the right place, and she supposed that it was
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