A short story

Different for Girls

Photo by Christina Victoria Craft on Unsplash

Hello lovely readers! Here’s a story I wrote a few years ago, but it’s not been published until today. It must be pre-Liz Truss, because I’ve had to change a reference to the number of women prime ministers from two to three. I hope you enjoy it - it fits into my darkly funny brand of short fiction.

Different for Girls

Rose was a feminist. Of course, she was. Women had died for the vote; they’d chained themselves to railings and marched to Parliament to protest. They’d put bombs in post boxes and set fire to historic buildings. Some went on hunger strike in prison and were force fed with a tube (but that was going too far for Rose). Every time she marked her voting paper with a cross, clutching the stubby, black pencil as if she was back at nursery school, and slotted it into the ballot box, Rose felt a frisson of pride: she was exercising her hard-won right.

But that didn’t mean you had to neglect yourself; she studied her face in the mirror as she put on her make-up, ignoring the stares of other Tube passengers. You had to make the most of what you’d got. Her friend, Megan in finance agreed. Lily, her boss disagreed: ‘Why do you feel you have to cover your face with expensive gloop? Why spend your money on fancy nail extensions?’ Lily had once asked and, although she was smiling, Rose had bridled at her criticism.

But she didn’t let it get to her. No; she enjoyed smoothing body lotion on after her shower, rubbing it into her long legs until her skin shone. Sometimes, in a long meeting, she ran her hand over her legs feeling how smooth they were. It wasn’t an obsession, just a habit, and only under the table when she was trying to stay awake. Richard (Mr Parkhurst, the director of the agency) had so many ideas, so many important things to say about the latest trends in property sales; it was hard to keep focussed, to look enthusiastic and keep smiling.

Rose had every respect for Lily (as a woman who’d almost got to the top in what had once been a man’s world). But Lily thought she had a right to go round causing trouble, just because she didn’t agree with the workplace policies. She was the old-fashioned women’s lib kind of feminist – she took the extreme position on everything. And Lily’s legs… Rose had seen them on a team-building away day (they had to get into cold, filthy water and make a raft. Just the sort of thing that would come in really useful, Rose had said to Ellie. If we have a flood in the office! She found herself whinnying like her mother’s horse and quickly stopped.) Lily had legs to die for; long and shapely (nearly as long as her own). But what man would look twice once he saw the thatch of hair on them? Like a rugby player. No wonder she always wore trousers.

Rose’s mother had been a first wave feminist; she’d been to ‘women’s lib’ meetings. ‘That was the 80s – no bras and thick, shapeless men’s dungarees.’ When her mother arrived for an 8 o’clock women’s group, she was the only one in a dress and the others were already there, remnants from the 7 o’clock lesbian group. ‘I only went that one time, darling. That’s the sort of women they were,’ said her mother, moving the fruit bowl to spray the work surface with disinfectant. ‘Dykes.’

‘Ooh, Mummy. You can’t say that sort of thing anymore. It’s all changed. They’re LGBT. And a few more letters.’

Rose had worked there for eighteen months, since leaving university, and after a year of travelling (to ‘open her mind’ as her mother told friends at her wine club tasting evenings). She was proud of herself for securing a good job; she was even more proud that their boss, Richard cared so strongly about equal opportunities, he’d been nominated for an award. Last night had been the awards ceremony.

She took a last critical look in the mirror – precisely half an hour to get ready. It was funny how much time it took, then, at night you had to cleanse, and tone then moisturise (unless you were a complete tramp); as well as daily facial exercises (to avoid lines and wrinkles). An hour every day (apart from Sunday). Six hours per week since she was, what, sixteen. Ten years of taking care of herself with a proper beauty routine, almost one hundred and thirty days of her life well spent. Not forgetting Tuesday evening and Sunday morning on the treadmill, five portions of fruit and veg each day, a monthly massage for all the stress she held in her shoulders. All those days.

It was different for men. But why would any girl (sorry she meant woman) face the world without make up? Lily was lucky. All very well to go on about destroying the patriarchy if you’ve got perfect skin, lashes that never needed mascara and the kind of pout lip-gloss ads promised. Rose had problem skin – a shiny forehead, open pores and a constant battle with her eyebrows: thick and hairy like some disgusting tarantula had left its legs above her eyes.

To make it niggle, everyone liked Lily. (Especially men.) At least until they said something she didn’t agree with, then she let them have it, straight from the hip. Rose found herself inwardly twisting and curling, like a piece of hair dropped onto the cooker with that sickening, burnt smell. Oh Lily, why don’t you get it, she thought? To really make men like you, you have to compromise, make a deal.

If Lily wasn’t such a bully, she might get her own way. Rose hated confrontation; it was so tiring.

***

As soon as she got to her desk, Lily pulled her aside. Through the glass wall of Richard’s office, Rose could see his award. And bunches of flowers. He was on the phone, smiling and lying back in his chair, feet on the desk.

‘I can’t believe they awarded him for promoting gender balance in industry,’ Lily almost hissed. ‘Let him try wearing heels like a Barbie doll! It’s demeaning. And he never makes his own coffee!’

Rose blushed with pride, like one of the hot flushes her mother complained about. Richard Parkhurst was a wonderful boss; he deserved every credit. Lily was only jealous. She was good at her job, but she lacked Richard’s drive; that’s why she was stuck in middle management. They were all equal, all on first name terms here. Her mother called him Mr Parkhurst, but Rose always referred to him as Richard. It gave her a sense of superiority.

‘Mummy, it’s different for girls now. We don’t have to hide our ambitions. We can have careers and babies. We’re equal. Not like when you were working. Richard says girls can get right to the top. Look, we’ve even had three women prime ministers.’

When Rose told Lily she thought he deserved the award, Lily laughed.

‘If you think so, go and tell him we want real equality. And that can start with what we’re allowed to wear.’ Lily put on her coat. ‘I’ve already tried. I’ll buy you a coffee. Have a go. He might listen to you. Nice shoes, by the way. Must be hell to walk in.’

In her brand-new Jimmy Choos, Rose was a head taller than Lily. She’d had enough of Lily hounding her. She smiled down at Lily’s retreating back, picked up some folders, and headed for Richard’s office. What she loved was that moment when strangers (men) glanced at her face, then dropped their gaze down all the length of her long, doll-like legs. That would never happen to Lily with her hairy calves hidden under trousers.

Richard sat behind his desk; phone jammed next to his ear. He waved her to sit down, and she waited for him to finish. He was showing his age – greying at the temples, pudgy and un-toned; but it wasn’t easy for him: wife, kids, mortgage, long hours. And Lily upsetting him. It wasn’t fair. Going on about the male gaze as if a man couldn’t even look at a girl anymore.

‘You’re living a double life: every time you walk across a room you don’t just walk across the room, you watch yourself crossing the room. It’s exhausting for women to live like that. Men don’t. They get on with it.’ Lily was exhausting with her feminist principles. Although some days by the time Rose got home, her feet were aching so much, she was too tired to go out and spent the evening with her feet in the foot spa, reading a magazine. But she loved her Jimmy Choos: the delicate leather straps, the eternal femininity of the tiny gold buckles. She smoothed her skirt and crossed her ankles so she could see how gorgeous they were against the plain carpet; they’d been a birthday present from her parents.

The award was glowing on his polished, oak desk; you couldn’t miss it – clear glass with bubbles frozen into it; every time the sun came out, it cast rainbows onto the wood; when Richard laughed and moved his feet the rainbows quivered and rippled.

‘Rosie! How can I help?’ he said as he finally put down the phone and sat up. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air… after a night celebrating!’

She smiled, accepting his compliment and congratulated him, crossing her legs again carefully; she took a deep breath. ‘I know Lily’s already talked to you …’

His hand hovered over the desk, but it didn’t slam down as she’d expected; she’d seen how he reacted when Lily challenged him. ‘No good coming to me with all that feminist balls,’ he said. ‘Our clients expect us to look the part. You won’t sell an apartment in Chelsea looking like a social worker.’

The words clumped in her mouth. ‘It’s just. I mean if you could.’

‘We’re a traditional estate agents. How does wearing heels amount to discrimination? I thought girls enjoyed looking nice.’ He stood up so suddenly, the leather chair whizzed back on its casters nearly crashing into the long window overlooking the river. He came round to her side of the desk. ‘Lily’s never going to get there if she’s such a ball-breaker. You’re the kind of girl we need.’

The air con was turned up high in the glass-walled office and Rose shivered. Out of the floor length window she could see people swarming over the bridge, the restless stream of red buses and black cabs, pumping out fumes. Richard’s aftershave was strong, but she detected male sweat; he’d felt threatened by Lily. That was no way to get round a man.

He put his hand on her bare arm.

‘You’re an asset to the company. An attractive girl like you can go far. A girl who knows how to use her feminine side. Give and take. Yin and yang.’

Outside a flock of pigeons circled, then flew up and landed on the roof of a church.

‘You could crack that glass ceiling. The sky’s the limit for girls like you, Rosie.’

His morning breath was spiked with last night’s alcohol. He’d probably not had breakfast. A narrow ridge of grey stubble he’d missed when he was shaving, stuck out like a mini draught excluder.

‘A very attractive girl, Rosie. I’ve always thought that.’

‘Thank you.’ She stepped back and shifted her pile of folders. Glanced around. No one else was in yet. Where was Lily with her coffee? She was taking her time today.

‘You could do really well here if you.’ His eyes slipped down from her breasts to her feet, and he side-stepped between Rose and the door. ‘You know where I’d like those legs,’ he said, half-groaning.

Then somehow, later she’d no idea how it had happened so quickly, his hands were all over her shirt and under her skirt and sliding over her legs; his thick wedge of a tongue was blocking her throat.

It was one of those moments when you don’t think, she told Lily when she came back with her cappuccino. She didn’t think anything at all. Rose just pushed. As hard as she could. She didn’t see herself pushing him; she reacted. Some part of Richard’s body (in her statement she said she thought it was probably his shoulder) must have hit the desk and unbalanced the glass award; there was nothing she could have done to stop it. She watched it roll, almost in slow motion, to the edge of the desk, then fall towards the floor. It hit his skull with the sound of the top of a soft-boiled egg being cracked open.

No, she’d no idea why she did it, that’s what she told the police officer who questioned her, but she tore off her heels and hurled them towards Richard’s body, catching his cheek. She must have been in shock. That was the only possible explanation for acting so out of character. It really wasn’t like her at all.