Shirley looks horrified. “She who—”
Bill holds a hand up to forestall interruptions. “Even if you didn’t like her, she was a strong woman, wasn’t she?”
“I was thinking about date-rape laws,” Vanessa says, answering the original question. “That’s what was bad. And I know – I used to work for a law centre.”
Bill looks mystified. “Since neither of us ever did that, I don’t know the law.”
This is surprisingly interesting even early in the morning. In the television industry, following all the Jimmy Savile scandals at the Beeb and the Harvey Weinstein case, regulations changed very dramatically. But I don’t know much about how things used to be in the past.
“All right.” Vanessa pats the string of pearls just visible beneath her cream cashmere jumper. “Women raped by a ‘date’ had to prove they hadn’t initiated, or even promised, sex. Hours in court were devoted to the defence counsel trying to prove that when the woman got into the man’s car, kissed him good night, invited him into her house, offered him a drink, dressed sexy… and the rest, it meant she wanted to sleep with him and he, poor rapist, was just following her signals.”
Both men look mystified.
“Well…” Bill begins. “It’s hard for us men to read women’s signals at the best of time…”
Shirley makes a bigpfff. “Since when are men so good at reading signals?”
Bill says, “But yes, when I was younger most men would assume if a girl invited you up to her flat… well, you know.”
“He would assume he’s about to get lucky?” Shirley completes the thought.
“I don’t mean if she invites a fella in for a cup of tea,” Bill clarifies. “But if she’s flirting, if she sits beside him and puts a hand on his leg, then… you’re not wrong to assume she wants it.”
I have to jump in. “She wants it? I hate it when men say that. Like ‘she’s gagging for it’, as if they’re doing her a favour.”
“Let me ask you this.” Vanessa is surprisingly not riled by his words. “Even if she did ‘want it’, as you say. Let’s say she took the guy into her bed; isn’t she allowed to change her mind?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but to many men of my generation, back in the day. They would not understand that a gir—” He looks at the three of us at the table and corrects his language. “—lady… Why would she change her mind last minute?”
“Why shouldn’t she change her mind?” I ask, keeping my voice calm. These are just men of their generation. The idea that most men thought like that once makes me angry but it also makes me thankful to be a millennial born after feminism won these battles for us.
Vanessa gives me an encouraging smile. “She’s right. You can change your mind about anything. Pull out of buying a house right up to the point of contract exchange. You can go into a shop, fill your trolley with produce, walk up to the till, then say, ‘Sorry, can I put these back?’For God’s sake, you can buy a car,sign the contract, hand over your bank details, then change your mind and get your money back. So why isn’t a woman allowed to change her mind about sex? And you have to agree that sex is a much more serious, more personal business than buying a car. What if something the man said turned her off him, or offended her? Must she sleep with him regardless because she wanted it when she didn’t know him so well? What if she suddenly remembered someone else she loved or whatever… There’s a hundred things that can ruin your mood.”
They carry on talking but I’m scarcely listening. Vanessa’s description is a little too close to what happened last night.
Did I misread the signals? The private room with a cosy bed. The intimate sofa? The heart-to-heart conversation.
On the other hand, it wasn’t me who made the first move; it was him who pulled me into his arms, played with my hair and called me his Evangeline, said my name like honey on his tongue.
Perhaps I hadn’t misread the situation. Osian did want me. Then he changed his mind. He’s allowed, isn’t he?
The same principle should apply here.
I don’t blame Osian for changing his mind, for getting carried away then applying the brakes.
He’s dealing with all kinds of unresolved grief and survivor’s guilt. Who says six or seven years is long enough to deal with it? It might take him twenty years to get over her. No one has the right to judge, least of all me with my own agenda.
I finish my breakfast, say a polite, “See you later,” and leave the table.
But the thoughts stay with me as I go into the store room and load my wheelbarrow with tools, bags of fertiliser and bulbs.
Osian has chosen not to have a relationship with me. So what? I’ll get over it. This is hardly my first disappointment; it’s not even my first Osian-induced disappointment. Girls like me get lots of practice at getting over a guy. It just takes a little time. Also, a little distance.
Iwillbounce back, better and stronger. One of my talents – part of my skill set – is to always fall upwards.
When he forgot me sixteen years ago, I poured my energy into working harder and got a scholarship. After the green room fiasco at Styler TV, I got this new business. So after his rejection yesterday, I will refocus my mind and make this garden an even greater success than anyone expects.
One idea comes to me as soon as my feet land on the soil. I had promised to open at the end of May. But Easter is not long now. Why not push for a test opening on that weekend?
