by Holly Bourne
He didn’t stop me leaving, so I carried on walking away from him – feeling that anger back in my stomach from those days before I came up with the project, feeling like I was losing, even if I was pretending I was winning.
“Wait,” he called, just as I was at the door. I stopped and watched him make his way over. He was shorter than you’d think, standing up. I stood taller.
“What is it?”
“You honestly got that angry, that quickly? How are you going to cope with a month of all this?”
I did a huge big sigh. “You were rude.”
“You were ruder.”
“You wound me up.”
“By politely disagreeing with you? So you storm off? From what Evie said, the point of this project is to stand up for yourself, not storm off.”
God, he was cocky. And he knew he’d got to me. His smirk was super strained – from being so wide across his face. His eyes danced all triumphantly behind his glasses.
I smiled a tiny smile. “Yes, well, the project’s not started yet.”
“Just as well.”
“Do you even need those glasses?”
It was his turn to smile. “As a matter of fact I do.”
“I’m worried about working with you,” I admitted. “I’m not sure if I can do this with someone who doesn’t believe in what I’m doing.”
We were bashed by a group of students streaming through the doors, soaking wet. I looked through the windows – it had suddenly started pissing down outside. Will grabbed my arm and steered me away and, again, his assertiveness gave me fancying-him vibes. I hated myself for those vibes.
He lowered his voice, so it was calmer, almost soothing. “Don’t you think you’re going to have to get used to people not agreeing with this pretty quickly?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look…” he continued. “Just because I don’t call myself a feminist, doesn’t mean I don’t think this is an interesting project.”
“You’re not acting like it’s interesting. You’re acting all superior.”
“Because you are! You didn’t even say hello!”
Didn’t I? I’d been so prepared to fight him after Evie’s briefing that maybe I did go into it in full-on argue mode.
“It’s going to take up a lot of your time.” I changed the subject, not saying sorry.
“Yeah. But it’s just what I need for my portfolio.”
“How can I trust you not to edit me all wrong and make me look stupid?”
He actually rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to stitch you up. I’m not a total jerk.”
I challenged him with my own eyebrows.
“I’m not…”
“Evie said you argue with her a lot in film studies.”
“She argues with me.”
That’s my girl…
We stood – sizing each other up. He’d emailed me a link to his own video channel earlier that day – it was frustratingly good. I needed him. And, from the sounds of it, he needed me.
I held out my hand. “Promise you’ll be completely objective?”
He held out his. “Promise you’re not going to be this hard to work with the whole time?”
I smiled. “Promise me you do actually need those glasses?”
“Promise me you’re not going to make me film your grown-out bikini line.”
“EWW!” I sputtered, and we both started laughing.
Okay – so he was a cocky jerk who used the word “equalitist” rather than feminist. But at least he didn’t call himself a “menimist”, and he was talented and willing.
My downfall combination.
“You will have to grow out all your body hair, right?” he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. He put on a squeaky voice. “I mean, isn’t, like, being hairless totally a way of oppressing women for a capitalist agenda?”
My mouth fell open. “We’ve not sorted out the rules on body hair.”
“Yeah, well, whatever you decide, you can film those bits on your own.”
I laughed again, and we finally shook hands – still sizing each other up as we entwined palms.
Damnit, I thought. I really fancy you…
twelve
The days leading up to the start of the project were pretty frantic. Everyone at the FemSoc meeting agreed to support the campaign. I stood up and talked about the men cat-calling me, and how it had all stemmed from there. The response I got was amazing – everyone clapped and cheered, so much I felt inclined to bow.
“Lottie, stop bowing,” Evie whispered through gritted teeth.
Megan and I blew off a whole day to make all the campaign artwork. We hid out in the smaller art room where students could work on their coursework outside of lessons – but we didn’t do coursework. And I didn’t tell my parents about blowing off a day of lessons for obvious reasons.
Megan had designed this awesome logo of me dressed as a ninja, with loads of cats with ninja eyebands on too. It was totally superb, and I was trying to copy it.
“I’m jealous of your use of black fineliner,” I said, my face practically up against the table to make sure I kept the line straight.
“Well, I’m jealous of how good you are with acrylic paints.”
We’d put the radio on softly in the corner and coloured in contented silence, which was pretty cool considering I didn’t know Megan that well. She was a comfortable person to be around, if I stopped trying to analyse her for signs of emotional trauma. Not always easy. I’d noticed that she only ever wore baggy clothes. The only times I saw her without the sleeves of her hoody pulled down over her hands and her arms crossed were when she was working on her art.
“Could Amber not come?” Megan asked, reaching for the scissors to cut out some more cat shapes.
I shook my head. “She got really bad tonsillitis right at the beginning of term so her attendance is down too much to skive off. She thinks she caught it on the plane back from America.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping your attendance up? I remember last year you said you were applying for Cambridge.”
I didn’t look up. I hadn’t heard back from them yet, and I was beginning to get nervous. “I am.”
“Jeez, you must be smart.”
I did look up then, and smiled. “I don’t even know if I’ve got an interview yet… Anyway, even if I do get one, I’m not sure what they’d make of all this…” Our artwork was now covering most of the available table space in the room. “What’re you doing next year?”
It was Megan’s turn to avoid eye-contact. She looked back down at her poster. “I’m not sure. I kind of messed up my exams last summer because of…stuff.”
What stuff? Max stuff?
“Megan…” I started, but she cut me off completely, with, “So, what are you, like, hoping to achieve with this thing?” She met my eye and the way she held her jaw made it clear she knew she was deliberately interrupting me, taking me off topic. I ignored the blodge in my stomach and obliged her.
“What do you mean?”
“Like…what’s the ideal outcome? You going to try and change laws? Or is it just about visibility?”
“You know,” I smiled, “I should probably know the answer to that…”
Megan smiled too, the ice melting between us once again. I thought about her question as I started to draw another cat. My previous one was so not as good as hers.
“I think it’s just about raising awareness,” I said. “I feel like people need to know the problem exists before they can want to help get rid of it. My hope is that I’ll be behaving like such a thing possessed, because there’ll be so much to call out, that it will change people’s minds…or open them.”
“Well you’ve certainly got some kick-ass posters to help you along the way.”
“I have indeed.” There was another long silence between us, but this time it was comfortable again. “I don’t know, Megan,” I eventually said. Because I didn’t know what else to say. “I just hope it changes
something.”
A week before it all kicked off, during half term, I came home from the library to find a letter on our Buddha welcome mat. It was in one of those posh stiff envelopes and my breath caught just looking at it.
Cambridge…
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands – savouring the moment of not knowing what was inside. The instant I opened it, I’d step into another part of my life. A part that knew whether or not Cambridge wanted me. I mean, I guess getting in could really change my life.
I peeled back one tiny side of the envelope, sniffing it – I wasn’t sure why. Then I sighed and carried it through to the kitchen. Mum and Dad would kill me if I opened it without them. Bugger. And tonight I was going to tell them about the Vagilante Project too. Maybe, if it was good news in the letter, it could help cushion the blow?
There was a note on the oven, scrawled out in Mum’s handwriting.
Baked pots inside – turn oven on at 5:30 – home at 6ish
I yanked the knob of the oven out to turn it on, helped myself to a glass of water and went up to my room to do some work. Mum rents a room at the town’s natural health centre. She does all sorts – shiatsu massage, reflexology, aromatherapy. I don’t think she makes much money, but it makes her very happy – and our house smell pretty weird. I think it’s more pocket money to use around Dad’s income… He teaches at the local university – thus all the academic pressure. Plus, he’s always banging on about the amazing opportunities I have, compared to what he had growing up as a child.
I couldn’t work, not with the letter downstairs. I pictured it having a heartbeat, and saw it thumping where I’d left it on the kitchen table – thump thump thump…
The front door opened and cold air rattled the beaded curtain.
“Lottie?” Mum called up the stairs. “I’m back. Did you put the potatoes on, darling?”
“I did.”
I listened to her getting-in noises – clicking her way into the kitchen to get the kettle boiling for an end-of-day herbal tea. I heard her stop.
“Lottie? Is this letter from…?”
“Cambridge?” I yelled down the stairs. “Yeah, I think so.”
A clatter, a thump and a rumble and Mum burst through my open bedroom door – her face red.
“OHOHOHOHOHOHOHMYMYMYMYMY,” she gurgled, the letter clutched in her hand. She danced about my room, leaping on and off the bed like a child too excited about going to Disneyland.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Mum, calm down. It may be a rejection letter. It may not be an interview offer.”
“It will be, it has to be. Oh, where’s your father? I want us to open it NOW. I’ll ring him, hang on…” She clattered off and I heard her on the phone in the hall. “There’s a letter here from Cambridge…yes…we’ll wait…but be quick…” A thunk of her plonking the landline down. “He’s on his way,” she called. “Now, let’s calm our nerves with some nice, fresh tea.”
Fifteen minutes later, and I was nursing a mug of fresh peppermint tea when Dad burst through the kitchen door, still wearing his coat and scarf.
“Tea?” Mum offered but he stopped her with his hand. I noticed him do it…
“Lottie, thank you for waiting.” He came and kissed my forehead. “Is that it?” His gaze went to the envelope, which had pride of place on the kitchen table, amongst Mum’s freaky orchids.
“That’s it.”
Dad pulled up a chair and Mum dragged hers around, so we were in a huddle. I picked up the waddy envelope, and peeled back the flap, sticking my finger in to rip it open.
“Careful,” Dad said. “You don’t want to damage what’s inside.”
I rolled my eyes and yanked the letter out. It was folded in three. I opened it, scanned it, reading it quicker than Dad who was reading it aloud.
“Dear Charlotte Thomas…” he mumbled under his breath. “We are delighted to invite you to come to interview at King’s College for Human, Social, and Political Science… Fantastic, you’ve got an interview, Charlotte! You’ve done it! You’ve got an interview!”
My hands shook on the paper… An interview. Despite dropping my extra A level, despite leaving my scholarship at posho school. I’d done it. I allowed myself to smile, and swallowed the lump I didn’t even realize was in my throat. It felt strange though… I’d worked towards this moment for so many years – it was surreal having it played out in actual life. Like it was a play I’d forgotten the lines to.
Mum and Dad were hugging me – Mum’s squeals doing all sorts of permanent damage to my eardrums. Cambridge…
Hang on, when was the interview date?
With a lurching heart, I scanned the page for the date and time. Please don’t be during my project, please don’t be during my project. I let out a sigh I didn’t even know I’d been holding. It was the week after my project was due to finish.
“Lottie, I’m so proud. We’re both so proud.”
“We have to celebrate! Shall we order a curry?”
“Yes, Lottie, would you like a curry?”
“And bubbly. Do we still have that bottle Frank and Anne gave us?”
“I think so, though it’s not cold. Lottie, bubbly?”
They’d let go of me and were now milling around, ordering takeout, shoving loads of ice into the sink and putting a bottle of champagne in there. Mum and Dad rarely drank so there was a huge stockpile of bottles under the kitchen sink.
I felt so many emotions all at the same time – relieved, scared…and guilty. What if the dates of the interview had overlapped with Vagilante? Would I have still carried on the project during the actual interview?
Dad went out to pick up the takeaway while Mum fussed with laying the table, not letting me help. She gurgled with joy as she laid out forks and took our old jar of mango chutney out of the fridge, and a flash of resentment washed over me all of a sudden. At them. At how big a deal this was to them. Was it my dream? Or theirs? It got blurred sometimes.
“Oh, Lottie. This is so exciting. I mean, there’s a lot of hard work, obviously. But college will train you up for the interview, and you’ll definitely get the grades you need. No excuse after you dropped history…”
There wouldn’t have been any sexism to call Cambridge out on during my interview anyway, would there? I mean, it’s Cambridge! It’s, well…an old institution steeped in tradition and history…umm…sexism never happens in places like that. And, anyway, I’d applied to King’s. That was one of the most progressive colleges. I could make loads of totally kick-ass liberal friends and we’d end up running the world together in a really nice way.
Dad charged back in, an aromatic plastic bag swinging off his wrist, letting the most gorgeous smells into the kitchen.
“The celebration food is here,” he announced, decanting silver containers of red juicy goodness into bowls and shoving some spoons in. We all sat around the table. Mum made me pop the champagne and I got most of it all over the walls, but managed to tip some into three flutes.
“A toast. To Lottie and Cambridge.” Dad held up his flute. “Only one more step to go, then watch out House of Commons.”
We all clinked.
“There are still a few more steps,” I said, even though I knew he was teasing. I grabbed two poppadoms and snapped them into bite-sized pieces. “I have to choose a political party, and then join one, then get elected MP, then win the party leadership…then, well, an entire general election.”
Mum shrugged, like it was nothing, smiling at Dad, in on the joke. Like I’d said, I just need to go upstairs and get a jumper. “Pah,” she said. “That’s nothing. I’m so proud of you, Lottie.”
“You know, I don’t have to go to Cambridge to become prime minister.”
“That’s true.” Dad helped himself to some of the chopped onion that came in a small tub. “But it certainly helps. Especially doing Human, Social, and Political Science.”
We ate in contented silence – Mum and Dad occasionally looking at me with gooey eyes. The f
ood, as always, was awesome. And even though my tummy was all twisted, I had seconds.
I still hadn’t told them about my project. As I ate yet another poppadom, I pondered over telling them now. With their stomachs full, with their moods good, with their worries currently put on hold…
“So, I’m starting an extra-curricular thing next week,” I announced, crumbling my poppadom into pieces. “I’m really excited about it.”
Mum and Dad looked up.
“What’s that?” Mum asked.
I could see Dad looking nervous already, the laugh creases around his eyes no longer there.
I gulped and poured myself more champagne.
“I’m doing this video project called The Vagilante…” I paused for dramatic effect. “Letting the cat lady out of the bag. It’s a feminism thing…” My parents shared a look as I explained the concept to them – how FemSoc were helping, how I’d got a professional film-maker (sort of) on board.
Their reaction was to be expected.
“That’s, erm…” Dad coughed. “Great, Charlotte. Really great. But, are you sure it’s not going to distract you from your studies?”
“Dad’s right,” Mum said, putting a hand over his. “You’ve got a lot of prep to do for this interview. Do you need that extra commitment?”
I pushed some uneaten pieces of rice around my otherwise empty plate.
“You say you want me to do great things,” I said. “And then you get annoyed when I try to do just that.”
They shared another look. Dad sipped from his glass and put it down.
“We’re proud of you, Lottie. It’s just we know you’ll be able to achieve amazing things if you go to Cambridge. Isn’t it worth holding on for a bit?”
“Being a hypocrite for a bit, you mean?”
“I’m just struggling to see why you have to start something like this now. At such a key time.”
“Can’t you just be excited about it? Like everyone else is?”
Dad ignored me. “Have you told college you’re doing this?”
I shook my head.
“So, how do you think they’re going to react, when you turn up next Monday, honking a giant horn and calling everyone sexist?”
