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I’m not a woman who bears grudges, broods over disagreements or questions other people’s motives. Neither do I feel compelled to win an argument at any cost. As with all rules, of course, there are exceptions. I won’t stand idly by while one person’s being exploited by another, and the same goes when I’m the one being exploited; I’ll do everything within my means to ensure that justice prevails.
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I didn’t expect to find myself orphaned at forty-five, an age at which most people still have both parents, but my mother and father were into their thirties when I was born, and my father had a certain weakness of character that cut short his life.
Deciding on the correct attire for an occasion is simple. First, know yourself. I’m petite and angular, so I look best in neat, fitted clothes. Second, make sure that any item you buy coordinates with everything else you own. I do this by only buying clothes that are charcoal gray or black, colors that contrast with my blond hair. Finally, glance occasionally at the style sections in the newspaper. I’m not against modifying my purchases if a trend makes sense. You might dismiss this as time-wasting frivolity, unworthy of a serious-minded woman. However, it’s precisely so that I don’t have to
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I have the terrifying sensation that my carefully constructed life in London is simply the dream of an unhappy girl, a dream from which I’m about to be woken. Irrational, I know.
The moment I closed my eyes, the irrational feeling creeps over me that something dreadful might happen if I’m not vigilant. As I tried to summon sleep, I thought about the years I’d lain awake as a girl, waiting for my father to return from the pub.
I had to creep around the house so as not to disturb my brother when he was sleeping, and wasn’t allowed to play with him in case I hurt him. Instead of having the full attention of an adult—my father—I had to vie for the odd moments my mother was able to give me when she wasn’t running around after Edward.
At a very young age, I realized it was in my own best interests to keep my father’s drinking secret, especially from my classmates at school. I soon became an expert. My primary defense strategy was to avoid making friends so that nobody would be tempted to call at my house and encounter my father. I achieved this by refusing to join in with playground games, turning down invitations to other children’s houses and parties, and generally keeping to myself. My second defense strategy was to avoid going anywhere in public with my father.
It goes without saying that I’m not someone who likes to divulge personal information. There’s too much of that sort of thing going on these days. People increasingly feel the need to validate their thoughts, emotions and experiences by sharing them with friends or even with complete strangers.
I mean, because of the ops he had to have when he was little, and because of your dad’s drinking. She read somewhere that it’s all to do with genes. Used to go on about it a lot. She thought Ed would’ve inherited the drinking gene, and that his biology or whatever would’ve set him on the same path as your dad. ‘The apple never falls far from the tree,’ she used to tell me. She thought it was her job to keep him on the straight and narrow. Well, I just wanted to tell you that.
It was apparent to anyone that Edward was a waste of space not because he was genetically preprogrammed to be, but because he’d decided to wallow in a mire of self-pity and self-indulgence rather than to clamber out, brush himself down and strive to become a hardworking, responsible citizen. And anyway, as my mother would have been fully aware, if Edward was biologically preprogrammed to have a weakness of character then so was I. After all, we have the same parents.
As you’re aware, I’ve always been the author of my own destiny. We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman. What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable.
“I wouldn’t be. I’ve organized my life very carefully so that no one could ever cause that kind of devastation. Because I’m not reliant on anyone emotionally or financially, I can’t be hurt. That’s how a feminist is—iron-willed, Teflon-coated, in total control of every aspect of her life.” Kate unwrapped a toffee penny and put it in her mouth. “That’s not my definition,” she said, sounding like someone with a mouthful of marbles. “As far as I’m concerned you don’t have to be all, or even any, of those things to call yourself a feminist.
What it boils down to is knowing that women are equal to men, and living that knowledge. It’s about ensuring that that equality is recognized in the home, in the workplace, in public life. And it’s about acknowledging that we all—women and men—are strong sometimes, weak sometimes, coolheaded sometimes, emotional sometimes, right sometimes, wrong sometimes. Locking away your feelings and vulnerabilities has got nothing at all to do with it. That’s something else entirely.”
You must see, though, that a feminist would never voluntarily put herself in a position where a man could hurt her.” “That’s like saying a feminist would never love, and that’s obviously not true. Whenever you open yourself up to another person, same sex or opposite, you take the risk of being hurt. That’s a simple reality of life.” “You’re overlooking the centuries of oppression that women have suffered at the hands of men, sometimes even colluding in it. We’re lucky we can choose to step out of the cycle. Why do the orange and strawberry creams always get left to the end?” I added, looking
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“You need to read The Female Eunuch,” I told her. “Okay, but you should read something more current. The discourse has moved on, you know. It’s like fairy stories. In the old days, the princess always had to get the prince, or it wasn’t considered a happy ending. Then came the first wave of feminism, and that suddenly felt like a cop-out—no self-respecting princess would sell her soul by marrying a prince. (Chuck me another orange cream, will you?) It must’ve been a massive breath of fresh air after what went before. But, these days, fairy-tale endings come in all shapes and sizes. It’s okay
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the cactus had evolved spikes, rather than leaves, in order to reduce the surface area through which it could lose water, while still providing some shade for the main body of the plant, often little more than a modified stem; many people, he said, wrongly assumed that spikes served only to ward off predators. He also remarked on the cactus’s thick waxy skin, its well-developed root system and its broad, succulent trunk, all of which facilitated the storage of moisture or the minimization of its loss.
I’d rather read about someone interesting than someone who’s just nice.”
Dealing with members of the opposite sex isn’t that dissimilar from training a dog; you need to be firm and persistent.
I was forty-five years old—an “elderly primigravida”—ancient, in maternity terms. There were innumerable things that could go wrong: with the baby, with the pregnancy, with me.
My Bunnikins. It had always been my bedtime favorite; it was now wrapped in tissue paper in a shoebox at the bottom of my wardrobe. I’d always thought my mother had knitted it for me. “When your mum and dad left, they took you with them. I’ve never cried so much in my life. I kept saying to myself, it wasn’t as if you were gone forever. I could still see you whenever I wanted. I’d still be able to cuddle you and talk to you and watch you grow up.”
I was never who I believed I was; far from being the protagonist in my own story I’ve simply been a minor character in someone else’s.
But I’m not sure, now, that that was the only distinguishing feature. I think that what set my childhood apart from Edward’s was that I was never loved, and my brother was.
“You know, Suze, you’re wrong. She did love you, too. Why would she leave you half of everything if she didn’t? You and Mum just had a different sort of relationship. To be frank, I was jealous of the way she treated you—like an equal. It’s not as much fun as you might think, always being cast in the role of the irresponsible child. She knew you didn’t need her help—your life was always going to turn out fine.”
“Seems we remember things differently yet again. But truth is subjective—everyone has their own versions. Maybe both of ours are equally valid.”
