Girls' Night In

by Jessica Adams

  We met on the rocky bed of the Thames at low tide. It was grey and very windy. I said I didn’t usually wear this kind of dress. But it was for charity.

  One knee on the pebbles, he said. I don’t usually take this kind of photograph. But it’s for charity.

  The dress blew up around my ears. My legs. Did I mention my legs? Sometimes I think my legs have a life of their own. Sometimes I eat a lot of cake to see if they’ll notice me. It doesn’t work. My legs just go on doing their own beautifully defined thing. I beat the dress down again with my hands.

  I like your shoes, he said.

  You like my shoes? I said. That’s it? My shoes?

  I tell you, that’s the first man who’s ever liked me for my shoes. I bought them in a junk shop when I was a student. Very high, very pale yellow and very strappy. They went with the gown.

  Are you married? I said.

  No, he said. But I could be. Are you good with children and dogs?

  Dogs? I said.

  But he had to go. He was in a hurry. He had more important matters to attend to, a plane to catch. I caught hold of his foot at the top of the ladder as it was about to disappear over the embankment. He turned to look at me strung out below.

  My shoes, I said again. I had taken them off for ease of climbing. I waved them, trying to revive the subject. He wouldn’t be drawn. He was gone.

  I called the magazine editor to get his number. It wasn’t that he was handsome really. He had the looks of a man who gets a long way with women by sheer force of will. Small, muscular, like a terrier. I left him a message. I said I hadn’t met anyone like him ever in my life before. Some time later, two months later, he called.

  What have you been up to? he said.

  Oh, this and that, I said. The usual. What have you been up to?

  I walked for thirty days through the mountains to photograph a tribe who’ve never seen a white man, he said.

  There’s not much you can say to that.

  I’ll be in London on the 20th, he said.

  There’s not much you can say to that either.

  So he came to London and made me come within two minutes of being in my bed. His tongue was brave and confident.

  Do you always come so quickly? he said.

  Does it always take you so long? I said. He looked at me quizzically.

  Two minutes, he said.

  Two months, I said.

  He didn’t answer. I like your breasts, he said. You have beautiful breasts.

  My breasts and my shoes. It was like that with him. Parts.

  We made love. We lay awake and talked about life. Have you had women all over the world? I said.

  He said an Afghan woman had come to his room in the middle of the night and risked being stoned to death. I imagined him with her. I wondered if Afghan women shaved their legs.

  We slept for an hour and woke simultaneously and came into each other’s arms, experienced the divine.

  It’s strange, he said.

  What? I said.

  It feels right, he said. I fell in love.

  Over breakfast the next morning he told me about a man in Kosovo who had his ear cut off and fed to a dog. Then he had to go. He was in a hurry. He had important matters to attend to, a plane to catch. He hurried away with not a glance at the queue of rain-soaked men outside my front door. They watched him go, disconsolate.

  He sent me passionate e-mails. Re: I want you. He said he dreamt about me intensely. Occasionally he would call me from airports. Out of breath, with two minutes to spare.

  I was glowing. People said I was lit up. I caused a seven car pile-up walking down the Cromwell Road. I was obliged to go out in purdah like my Afghan woman friend who may or may not have shaved her legs.

  Hours, days, weeks went by.

  I’ve been thinking about the Afghan woman, I suddenly said when he called. The one who came to your room in the middle of the night. What happened to her? I said.

  It all went wrong, he said.

  Did you make love to her? I said.

  Yes, he said.

  And then? I said.

  She wanted to marry me to escape the country.

  And you wouldn’t save her? I said. After you’d had her?

  I’ll be in London on the 3rd, he said.

  When he came we danced together. Where were you today? I said.

  At a meeting of the charity board, he said. In Stockholm.

  Was it boring? I said.

  The desire to see you was almost unbearable, he said. He took my shirt off and we slow danced like that.

  Women have all the power, he said.

  How’s that? I said.

  Only women know what’s going on, he said.

  They do terrible things to the women in Afghanistan, I said. My friend again. With the hairy legs.

  They do, he said.

  Because they think women have all the power, I said.

  I hadn’t thought of that, he said.

  You hadn’t thought of that? I said.

  I just take photos, he said. His face clicked shut like the closing of the aperture. I took more clothes off to try to make it open again and let the light in. You could have any man you wanted, he observed.

  Any man? I said. Do you promise me?

  At breakfast he said that a woman on death row was due to be hung in five hours and forty minutes’ time. Then he had to go. He was in a hurry. He had important matters to attend to, a plane to catch.

  Does she shave her legs on death row?

  He’s an angel, I told people.

  Angels are in heaven, people said. Not manifest.

  Well then, I said, a hero.

  Ditto, they said.

  He’s my hero, I said. I told the guys out by the railings. They were happy for me even though their clothes were torn to rags by the elements.

  He called from the airport. I’ll be in London on the 12th, he said.

  We danced again.

  Who was the last woman before me? I said.

  I was in love with an evangelical Christian in the Bible Belt, he said. God told her not to sleep with me.

  Do you like women who like you? I said.

  What do you mean? he said.

  It’s a simple question. Maybe you only like women who don’t like you.

  What are you talking about? he said.

  I love you, I said.

  When he came he made a sound like he was dying. That’s the first time you ever made a noise like that, I said.

  Over breakfast, he told me about a doctor who was forced to amputate the limbs of thieves in football stadiums. Then he had to go. He was in a hurry. He had important matters to attend to, a plane to catch.

  He didn’t tell me when I would see him again. I never did see him again.

  I’m walking for thirty days to photograph the building of a school for the tribe who’d never seen a white man, he said.

  What do they want with a school? I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  When will I see you? I said.

  It’s not enough, he said hopefully, is it? But I refused to comply.

  I’ll call you, he said. He lied about that. He wrote me a letter at Christmas.

  Unfortunately I find it’s impossible, he said. He enclosed a gift of a carved wooden knife. Unfortunately we are forced to amputate.

  I read the letter out to the guys by the railings. Greetings for the coming year, he wrote. The guys raised their eyebrows. That’s it, I said, end of letter. No love, no kisses, no regrets. That was when I noticed their clothes, ripped and torn like my heart. Am I not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? I asked them.

  Yes, they said. Did that make you think he’d love you? What made you think that? Then they asked me what he’d done to deserve my love.

  He liked my shoes, I said.

  But you’re one in a million, they said.

  One in a million, I said.

  Acknowledgements

  by Jessica Adams, Chrissie Manb
y and Fiona Walker

  There may be a certain nobility in being an unsung hero, but we would prefer to get the biggest sound system available, dig out our Bananarama puff-balls and yodel ‘Really Saying Something’ to the rafters to emphasize how many people have worked their socks, shoes and toe-nail polish off to make this book happen. They all deserve a long, sustained high C, high 5 and high kick of thanks.

  The twenty-eight other authors who donated their wonderful stories free of charge are all stars. We’ll remain eternally grateful to each and every one for pooling so much talent, so many contacts and so much time. A special mention has to go to Freya North and Karen Moline, who by serendipitous luck were in the same bar on the night that we thought this idea up and who immediately agreed to be involved. Their enthusiasm gave us the extra momentum needed to start the ball rolling. As for our networker and naughty-quote doyenne, Jane Owen, thanks for pulling strings and pitching treatments all over the BBC. And, for making our girls’ nights out such fun, raised glasses go to honorary Lit Girls – Jenny Frielich, Julie Wright and Joanne Finnie.

  We were very lucky to land Jonathan Lloyd from Curtis Brown as our agent on this project – it was worth getting him out of bed at an ungodly hour in Australia to make him say yes. To Jonathan, Tara Wynne and Carol Jackson, a huge vote of thanks.

  There was only ever one publisher for Girls’ Night In. HarperCollins’ enthusiasm was matchless from the start, and their cross-departmental input, understanding and energy has been phenomenal. The Hammersmith Massive is a huge, friendly posse and the fact that its Lit Home-girl, Rachel Hore, agreed to take on thirty-one mistresses of the pen is worthy of a bravery award and a diploma in diplomacy. Huge thanks to her, to Yvette Cowles, Fiona Mcintosh, Claire Round, Jennifer Parr, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore and to the unflappable Anne O’Brien (no more one-eared Easter bunnies after this, we hope). Also hip-hop-hoorays to Martin Palmer, Jane Harris, Karen Davies and Katherine Ball who have secured all those orders which mean more money to build playgrounds and dormitories.

  In Australia, we would also like to thank Julie ‘Jewels’ Gibbs and Fiona Inglis, who have helped create Stage Two – a new version of this amazing book, to be published on the other side of the world this year.

  Liz Sich and Melody Odusanya at Colman Getty PR deserve a song all to themselves for juggling so many author contacts, differing schedules and delicate egos to come up with a sensational media campaign.

  In the hero stakes, they don’t come better-qualified than the ultimate T, D and H Neil Morrisey, whose work with War Child extends far beyond the usual celebrity endorsement. He gets our big love ballad.

  And the song we’ll sing loudest goes to those for whom this book is only a small step on a long mission. When Jessica first walked into War Child’s London office, she knew it was somewhere special. Piles of diabetic supplies were on the floor next to telephones, and sacks of sleeping bags stood next to the kettle. It was clearly a hands-on aid organization, and it still is. Thanks to Heather, James, Johnnie, Nicky, Sue, Anne-Marie and especially Lynne Kuschel, who has been War Child’s right-hand woman on this book. Thanks too, to Bill Leeson, War Child’s co-founder, for his vision.

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

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  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  http://www.harpercollins.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

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  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

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  Auckland, New Zealand

  http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

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  London SE1 9GF

  http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

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  New York, NY 10007

  http://www.harpercollins.com