She gave me The Look, a patented signature expression that all mothers kept in their back pocket and only pulled out when it was time for their child to shut up immediately.
‘The very fact you could boil this book, any book,down to a list of tropes tells me everything I need to know about it. It’s frivolous at best, genuinely harmful at worst.’
‘You are so out of touch,’ my sister huffed. ‘Do you know how successfulButterfliesis? How many women will have a happier life because they read a book that showed a healthy relationship with boundaries and communication, and encouraged them to expect the same? That sounds like the opposite of misogyny to me,Mother.’
I should’ve known The Look didn’t work on Charlotte.
‘Is that really what you thought when you read it?’ I asked, an unexpected smattering of surprise cutting through my overwhelming shame.
‘That’s what everyone I know thought when they read it,’ she replied, still defensive as though I needed to be talked around like Mum. ‘It’s a book that teaches women to ask for what they want out of life instead of accepting what they’re given.’
Mum clucked dismissively.
‘Only if what they want is to know about pegging.’
‘There’s no pegging inButterflies!’ I yelled at the top of my voice.
Both of them stared at me, Charlotte with a Cheshire Cat grin and Mum with a recognisable look of disappointment.
‘So youhaveread it,’ Charlotte crowed. ‘Super-swot Sophie, curled up at night with her smut. I love it.’
‘And she’s too embarrassed to admit it as she should be,’ Mum said with a superior smile. Both of them were claiming this as a win but there were no winners, just one big loser. Me.
‘Maybe you should read it again,’ Charlotte suggestedwhen my shoulders sagged. ‘You’re so uptight, sissy, it could do you some good.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, scraping back my hair and knotting it around itself. I’d been awake for less than half an hour and I was ready to go back to bed. ‘I’ll consider it.’
‘Let me know if you need more recommendations,’ my sister called as she sailed out the room. ‘Or if you want me to do something with your hair.’
‘She’s a monster,’ I muttered into my mug. If there was room for me in the oven, Charlotte would certainly fit.
‘But she’s right about one thing,’ Mum said on a long, frustrated exhale. ‘You do need to do something with your hair, love.’
An untethered strand fell down in front of my face on cue and I tucked it behind my ear. When was the last time I’d had it cut? I couldn’t remember. I really had been very busy for a very long time and personal care hadn’t exactly been a priority. No point in wasting time getting haircuts when all you ever did was work.
‘Mum, do you really hateButterfliesthat much?’ I asked, even though I knew she wasn’t about to do a complete one-eighty on the most fervently held opinion I’d heard her express since she reviewed the TV adaptation ofLessons in Chemistry. Hopefully Brie Larson missed it and never had to endure the pain I just had.
‘I don’t hate it,’ she replied easily. ‘I don’t respect it.’
‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘That’s much worse.’
‘There’s a reason the author doesn’t want anyone to know who she is,’ she continued, blissfully ignorant. ‘Pseudonyms might be common but complete anonymity isn’t. Whoever she is must be deeply, deeply ashamed.Books like this and the women who read them set back feminism a hundred years.’
‘Good to know, sorry I asked,’ I said, sliding off my stool to refill my coffee. It wasn’t like I’d ever be able to sleep again anyway, might as well give myself a caffeine headache while I was here.
‘Not as sorry as Charlotte will be if she doesn’t drop this nonsense,’ Mum replied, nudging her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist when the doorbell rang. ‘Can you get that? It’ll be your aunt and uncle, they said they were getting here early and I need to have another stab at this cake.’
‘Stabbing it would be a mercy,’ I assured her, Mum pulling the abomination out the fridge as I schlepped down the hallway. They weren’t exactly my favourite people and our feelings about the world didn’t always align, but at least Aunt Carole and Uncle Bryan wouldn’t denounce me as a global disgrace and after what I’d just been through, I was prepared for anything they could dish out.
Or at least I thought I was until I opened the door to see a tall, rugged man on our doorstep, a huge smile on his handsome face.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ I said as he took in my cat-print pyjamas, fluffy bunny slippers and the much-maligned state of my hair.
There was one other thing I wasn’t prepared for and it was standing right in front of me.
Joe bloody Walsh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
