What's a Girl Gotta Do?

by Holly Bourne

  I opened the door for him like a gentleman, and gestured him through. He got the joke, and curtsied.

  “Oi. I’m not insecure about my balls!”

  And we had dinner.

  twenty-seven

  “I still can’t believe you ate two helpings of dough balls.” Will surveyed the array of empty plates between us.

  “Don’t forget the two extra bowls of garlic butter,” I added, sticking my stomach out and stroking it like a pregnant person. I turned sideways in my seat to show Will my food baby. “It’s yours,” I said, all dramatically. “And I’m going to call it Quentin.”

  Will arched his eyebrows at my expanding stomach.

  “That is quite an accomplishment.”

  I pushed my stomach out further. “I know. I grow the best food baby out of all my friends.”

  His eyebrows went up further, if possible.

  “You actually had a competition?”

  I thought back to last February, when it had rained constantly for twenty days. Bored witless, Evie, Amber and I had challenged ourselves to eat a baked camembert each to see who made the biggest food baby.

  “Oh yes. Evie and Amber made me a medal.” Out of a Mini Babybel…and I’d eaten it. And made myself sick…

  His nose pulled up. “How attractive.”

  “I don’t care about being attractive.”

  “Every girl cares a little bit, even feminists. Cognitive dissonance, but still.”

  I thought about what he’d said as I looked around the restaurant, touched that he’d remembered my speech. Everyone’s cutlery clink-clanked off the high ceilings, mixed with the screams of a tantruming toddler the other side of us.

  “I guess I do,” I said. “But not like in a change-who-I-am way. I mean, how exhausting would that be? Having to pretend you’re someone you’re not all the time – to be a persona. It must be so hard. I mean…like you…”

  “Yeah.” Will nodded, looking bored, though I was beginning to realize bored was just his resting face. He sat up. “Hang on! I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  I picked up my glass of wine and took a deep sip. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I don’t!”

  “But you must spend so long crafting your facial hair that way.”

  Will’s hand went up to his immaculate mini-beard thing.

  “And, like, don’t you ever feel like watching a shitty movie, just sometimes? Because it’s relaxing?”

  He crossed his arms. “Define what constitutes a shitty movie.”

  “I dunno. One of those comedies where everyone poos themselves on a stag do. Or when ten cars crash into each other.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “So you genuinely like watching what? Important Oscar-winning films with loads of boring talking and acting? All the time? For fun?”

  “Yes, Lottie, I do.”

  “But you’re not, like, actually this cocky, are you? Like, underneath it all you’re desperately insecure and cling to your veneer of superiority like a safety blanket because you’re scared, if you reveal the real you, everyone will hate it?”

  He burst out laughing. “I am NOT superior.”

  “You are. You SO are.” I drained my wine glass, letting its warm fuzziness make me feel all warm and fuzzy…and fuzzy…I’d had two large glasses…Will was paying. “You think you’re better than everyone. You think you’re better than feminism!” I gave him my best look over the rim of the glass.

  “Just because people don’t agree with you, doesn’t mean they think they’re superior.”

  I put my glass down, a bit too loudly. “But I still don’t understand how you can NOT agree with feminism! After everything you saw me do last week.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Honestly, we’re going to have this conversation again?”

  I scrunched up my napkin in my hand. “I just don’t get it. I don’t get you. You seem so smart…” I trailed off. And that’s when I realized, Will was smart. He wasn’t only an incredible documentary maker, but you could tell he was a deep thinker, and he was witty, and quick, and the sort of person I was quite sure gets As and Bs in his exams. How could someone that smart not agree with me? About something so undeniably right? Especially when they were so good-looking? I realized I didn’t want to have this argument either. I was enjoying the meal, the wine, the glow in my tummy from the interview going well. The fact that I’d had enough wine to not be worrying about why Amber was inexplicably mad at me. To not be worrying about Megan and how lost she seemed. To not be worrying about my project – though, actually, I wasn’t ever supposed to let that slip. So I admitted defeat and changed the subject.

  “What got you into films then?” I asked, thinking, really, I hadn’t ever asked him about himself. It was always him asking me questions, with that bloody lens shoved in my face. “Evie said it was Tim Burton who got her into films.”

  Will literally shuddered. “Ergh, that is so Evie.”

  “You are SO SUPERIOR!”

  He smiled wolfishly. Like a sexy wolf. God, wolves really are quite sexy, aren’t they, if you come to think of it? Or is that a weird thought to have?

  “That one, I faked,” he said. “I actually like Tim Burton.”

  “Oh my God, the boy can make a joke.”

  He smiled again.

  “So, why are you into films?”

  He leaned back in his chair as he spoke – telling me about getting his first camera when he was young. (“God, do you remember when you actually put things in a DVD player?”) How all he wanted for his birthday was the newest equipment. He told me how he watched every single documentary on TV. (“The Attenboroughs, all the Panoramas, even those awful ones where they send cameramen to follow teenagers on their first holidays to Magaluf.”) His favourite film-maker was this German guy who made this one documentary about a man who lived with grizzly bears until he got eaten by one.

  “Please don’t call him a ‘German guy’,” Will said, when I explained Evie liked the same person.

  “Superior.”

  And he laughed.

  Will relaxed when he talked about film. After a while his voice lost its authoritarian tone and his real enthusiasm came through. He looked all boylike, his eyes sparkly beneath his glasses. His forehead stopped wrinkling in disapproval at everyone around him.

  We were having the most lovely time, until the bill arrived.

  The young waiter plopped it on the table, right in front of Will, without even giving me a glance. Will reached for it, but I grabbed his hand, stopping him.

  “Excuse me,” I said loudly, to the back of the waiter who was already walking off.

  Will twigged. “Lottie, don’t. Come on, have a night off.”

  “The patriarchy never has a night off.”

  The waiter spun on his feet. “Is there a problem?” he asked, smiling, like nothing would ever be a problem if he just kept smiling like that.

  I pointed to the small silver plate in front of Will. “I am capable of paying a bill,” I said. “My vagina doesn’t prohibit me from paying for my own dough balls.”

  It wasn’t really necessary to use the word “vagina” – I winced the moment it came out. Will had turned bright red, his neck sinking into the starched collar of his posh shirt.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” the waiter said. “If you’re paying…” He pushed the plate over to me.

  “I’m not paying. He is.” I gestured to the dying Will. The guy’s face scrunched up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

  I gritted my teeth – feeling guilty for Will, but a project was a project. A promise was a promise.

  “The problem is…” I hated myself as the words came out. God it sounded petty…it was petty…but it was still sexism. “Is that you shouldn’t just assume the boy is paying the bill. And also, while you’re here…” Why was I still talking? I was definitely still talking. “When you brought the wine out to taste, why did you offer it to him? And not me? Do seventee
n-year-old boys know more about wine than seventeen-year-old girls? Oh, yes, that’s right…” I found myself smiling crazily. Will had turned fully red – there wasn’t a single part of his face that wasn’t totally tomato. “We’re not eighteen… Soz.” I shrugged, keeping the manic grin across my face.

  “I’ll…umm…” The waiter looked completely broken. Not, like, emotionally broken – but just confused broken. “I’ll get the manager.”

  I found myself waving my finger at him – okay, so two large glasses of wine was definitely my limit. “You do that.”

  The second he’d stridden off towards the kitchen, still shaking his head in bafflement, I leaned across the table.

  “We need to go. Now.”

  Will was shaking his head, cringe bleeding all over his facial expressions. “Lottie, like, really?” His voice was shaking. “There was no need. It was just a bill. He was just nearer my side of the table…”

  “There IS a need. But you can yell at me once we’re outside. Come on now, GO.”

  I looked behind me – we didn’t have long. I wasn’t sure if you could get arrested for drinking underage, or if it was just the restaurant that got into trouble. I didn’t particularly want to find out though.

  Will’s eyes were all wide as he fumbled with his many bags of camera equipment.

  “Will, just dump some money on the table and run!”

  He scrambled in his pocket, yanked out a few notes, flung them hysterically onto the silver plate I’d found so offensive, and then took off in front of me. I flung my own bag over my shoulder and ran after him, ignoring the tables of people who gawped at us, forkfuls of pizza paused mid-air on the journey to their mouths. Just as I pushed against the big glass door, I turned and saw the waiter and some other guy in a suit stride out of the kitchen. They saw our empty table and looked up.

  “Hey,” the waiter yelled, walking faster.

  “Will – run!” And with my heart going absolutely berserk, I threw myself after him, the door slamming behind me. The cold winter air hit my lungs as my boots thudded heavily on the concrete. We sprinted past other restaurants and past the giant Starbucks, and then Will dived left into a little alleyway that took us into the car park of the local Waitrose. It was pretty quiet as it was a Monday night but there were enough parked cars to provide cover. We ran across it, my lungs gasping for air. Then Will ducked down behind a parked Range Rover and pulled me down with him.

  There was silence, apart from the gasping sound of us regaining our breath. We peered out, waiting for the police, or an angry crowd with torches and pitchforks. Neither arrived.

  After five minutes, we both leaned back against the car, breathing in a more measured way. I’d stopped wheezing, for instance. Which was good. Because I’d never wheezed before.

  I turned to Will, who was still flattened against the car like he was about to get shot.

  “So…” I tried to keep my voice light, knowing he was pissed off. “That was a new experience. Shall we go for dinner again next week?”

  His eyebrows furrowed and his voice came out super strained.

  “There was absolutely no need for any of that,” he managed to say.

  “Ahh, come on. It was fun.”

  He shot me a glance. A glance that said none of that was fun.

  “What was I supposed to do? Ignore the rules of my project just because you were paying for two batches of dough balls?”

  He stood up suddenly, his camera bags clashing against each other, and started walking away. I watched him for a second – stunned – then chased after him.

  “Hey, what’s your problem?”

  He didn’t answer me – just kept on striding.

  “Come on, Will. What did you want me to do? Just leave it?”

  He stopped and flung himself round. “Yes! That’s exactly what I wanted you to do!”

  “But…the project…” I didn’t understand. It wasn’t like he was new to the idea. He’d been filming it for over a week.

  “It was just one stupid little thing,” he said. “I mean…it’s just a bill. It’s just someone on minimum wage, putting a bill slightly more in front of me than in front of you… There was no need. NO NEED…for… Argh… God, that was so embarrassing. YOU are so embarrassing.”

  I stopped walking, tears prickling in my eyes almost instantly. I blinked them back, using them, turning them to anger…I was practised at that.

  “No, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING,” I screamed after him, my voice echoing around the mostly empty car park. “You’re more than happy to hide behind a camera when I’m putting myself out there, totally humiliating myself EVERY DAY for a good cause. But THE MOMENT you have to go through even a HINT of what I’ve been through this past week…” I started walking again, catching him up… “No, you totally wig out like a fucking…” I couldn’t think of a word, I was too furious… “Fucking…GIRL…” I found myself shouting. Then I stopped walking. Will picked up on it too.

  He turned, his smug little face still all red.

  “Oh, that’s great. That’s just great. Are you going to custard pie yourself?” he asked. He was so jeery, we needed a new word for jeery…maybe jeery actually is a new word…

  “Oh NOW you agree there’s sexism? When I say something sexist that helps you win an argument? WHAT A SURPRISE.”

  I wasn’t sure where all this anger was coming from, but it was coming from somewhere and there was a lot of it.

  “It was just one bill!” Will shouted. “A tiny little bill!”

  “It’s never a tiny anything!” I yelled back. “That’s the whole point! That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re doing this. That’s why we – annoyingly – have to spend all this fucking awful time together! Because it’s NEVER JUST A BILL. It’s the whole thing… It’s invisible…it’s lots of little things…and they make the big bad things happen…and…”

  “Well, if you hate spending time with me so much, then I’m out,” he shouted. “You need me more than I need you.”

  Panic. Panic set in. He couldn’t be out… We needed a cameraman…argh…argh…

  “Oh, will you get over yourself?” I screamed. Because screaming abuse at him was so likely to make him stay. “The one moment you had to participate, about something as ‘silly’ as a bill, you said it yourself, and you’re out?” I started clapping. Because sarcastic applause was CERTAINLY going to make him stay. “Well done, Mr Neutral. Why not go film some dying people in a war and not do anything about it? And get annoyed when they bleed on you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “You’re crazy.”

  “You’re an arrogant prick.”

  “You’re a man-hating bitch.”

  We stood facing each other – his face orange under the car park’s lights. I hated him so much. Everything about his smug…superior…passive…nonsense… I hated him, hated him…

  Will kissed me.

  One second we were glaring each other down, the next he’d grabbed my face, pulled me to him and kissed me – the force of it sending his glasses askew.

  And, bollocks, it was a good kiss. A great kiss. All hungry and clutchy and everything I really annoyingly wanted because my hormones apparently didn’t give a flying fuck about the patriarchy…but this guy had just called me a bitch!

  I pushed him off. Yes, after maybe two minutes of solid tonguing. But I eventually pushed him off, so hard he flew backwards.

  “You do NOT call me a bitch and then think you can kiss me!” I wiped my mouth, knowing I was just on the brink of crying.

  “You called me an arrogant prick!” He stumbled backwards, not missing a beat. He’d managed to go from fighting, to kissing, and cruise-controlled right back into fighting again.

  “Because you are one!” I yelled.

  “Yes well…” And I dared him to say it…to say I was a bitch again. I waited. He clenched his fists – to withhold his anger, or sexual tension or whatever…but when he opened his mouth, he said, “I’m out… This whole thing…it’s
ridiculous… I’m out.”

  Will walked away – all his bags jiggling. I stood and watched him turn black then orange, black then orange, as he strode in and out of the lighting.

  Did I call after him? He’d called me a bitch…

  I touched my lips – where he’d so recently been.

  I didn’t call after him.

  I cried on a bench at the bus stop, then rang Mum and asked her to pick me up.

  twenty-eight

  She came in her old beat-up Volvo, bundled in about ten thousand shawls for the cold. I was sitting on the low wall outside the supermarket – the worst of the tears passed now. But somehow just seeing Mum sent me over the edge again.

  She pulled up, her worried face peering at me through the windscreen. I waved feebly and clambered into the passenger seat.

  The warmth of the car radiator hit me, making me realize how cold I’d got. Sitting there. Crying. Watching my breath crystallize and float off into the dark.

  “Oh, Lottie, honey. What’s wrong? You never cry!”

  I snuffled and held out my hands to thaw them.

  “Thanks for picking me up. I know it’s not far to walk, but it’s cold, and dark.”

  “It’s fine, sweetie.” She patted my shoulder, then shifted the car into gear. I leaned my head against the window, watching the stars blur by. I was so confused by everything that had happened in the last hour. Why did doing the right thing feel so wrong? And the wrong thing feel so right?

  “I’m okay…” I said, into the window. “It’s just…this project…” I regretted saying it the moment I did. My parents were looking for any reason to stop me. They still hadn’t recovered from that B, and, to be fair, their worries seemed valid. Look at tonight for example. Usually on a Monday I’d be doing coursework until nine and then reading extra books until bed. Instead I’d charmed a journalist, charmed Will, pissed off Will, done a runner at Pizza Express, kissed Will, had a fight with Will and cried in a car park.

  Shit like that does not get you into university, especially a university like Cambridge.