He looks at her for a moment, his eyes so wide from drink that he sort of looks like he’s wearing a pair of googly eyes. There’s a boyish quality to him. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I mean, I don’t know. I don’t see the appeal of going back to school myself, but it matters to you. And all this women stuff…’ He waves his hands drunkenly as if everything women-related is in the room with them right now. ‘I know that matters to you too. Sure, why don’t you tell me a bit about it? What does “feminist theory” involve when it’s at home?’
A flicker of hope, of feeling seen, dances across her heart and she instinctively sits up taller, ignoring the slight slurring of his words.
This is her chance to try to get the message across to him. She feels as if parts of her brain that have lain dormant for the better part of the last thirty years are being sparked back to life. She feels challenged to think differently, to see the world in a whole new light.
‘Well, it’s not all bra-burning and throwing yourself under horses. So many people completely misunderstand what feminism is, and how many different strands there are of it. It’s not one big homogenous movement. There are factions with widely different perspectives.’
‘So it’s likeGame of Thrones,’ Aidan says, continuing to flick through the book.
‘Well… I wouldn’t say that.’
‘But it is – and they are all vying for the Iron Throne. But I suppose there isn’t actually a throne… so maybe it should be Game of Wombs. Although an iron womb…’ He pulls a face as if he might be sick, which with the amount of alcohol he has very clearly consumed isn’t beyond the realms of possibility. ‘Game of Bras!’ Aidan announces triumphantly. ‘Since you like to burn ’em and all.’ He laughs and Laura wonders if she should be laughing with him, even though she’s not finding this particularly funny. She’d hoped to have a serious discussion with him – share her passion a bit – and here he is making jokes.
‘It’s not a joke,’ she says, trying to keep the terseness from her voice. ‘Feminism is more important now than ever. You shouldknow that. You should be invested in that as a father of a daughter if nothing else. Women’s rights are regressing. Roe v Wade has been overturned. Women’s rights have been almost totally stripped away in Afghanistan. Violence against women and girls is on the rise globally. The world is morphing into a scary place. Men are still out-earning women and bodily autonomy is still far from guaranteed. It’s under attack almost everywhere.’
He looks at her and blinks slowly. He’s trying. She sees that. The cogs and connections of his internal operating system are trying to compute what she has said and formulate an appropriate response that doesn’t make her want to kill him.
‘Yeah,’ he says, the slur more pronounced. ‘It’s why you need Game of Bras!’ He sniggers and she feels her body tense. There is no point continuing this conversation. It would be like discussing astrophysics with a potato.
Apparently sensing her discomfort, Aidan stops laughing and sits up straight. ‘Sorry, Laura. I’ll be serious. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just saying…’ He trails off before he actually says what he’s just saying, and instead of jumping in to fill the gaps like she normally would, Laura just looks at him, disappointment wrapping its way around her chest so that she struggles to take a full, deep breath.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asks, wearily.
‘Just a couple of bags of Scampi Fries at the bar.’ She should’ve known – should’ve recognised the fishy odour. It’s normally enough to make her nauseous. Aidan emits a perfectly timed burp, and Laura wishes to travel back in time just a few seconds to before the smell was quite so noticeable.
‘I could eat, though,’ Aidan says. ‘You wouldn’t be a pet and stick some chips in the air fryer? And maybe some of those goujons too.’
Resisting the urge to brain him with herFeminist Theorybook, Laura nods and gets up, leaving him to slump back into the cushions. She’ll put the food in the air fryer even though she knows that he will most likely be asleep by the time it is ready. Setting the timer, she takes her book up to her room, changes into her pyjamas and climbs under the duvet to read some more.
14
FUDGE
Becca
Sixteen-year-old me is doing cartwheels of joy. She is whooping and doing that funny dance Carlton inThe Fresh Prince of Bel Airused to do when he was excited. She is calling her friends because, of course, mobile phones were not in general usage back in the good old mid-nineties. At least not in Derry anyway, and definitely not among teenagers. She is screaming down the phone to Niamh and Laura that Conal has asked her to ‘go steady’, but only more serious because he is actually floating the idea of them living together.
And while at sixteen, I did not want to actually live with a boy – sharing a home with my awful big brother Ruairi was more than enough, thank you very much – I did very much wish and hope that one day I would in fact live with a boy. A boy – or more accurately a man – who loved me and who wanted my face to be the first thing he saw every morning and the last thing he saw every night before he went to sleep.
Yes, at sixteen I had not really pictured that being ConalO’Hagan, even if I did have a secret crush on him, but here I am… thirty years later, and it is happening. I am being asked to live with the man I am absolutely very much in love with.
This is the man I have been driving myself stupid about, worrying that he was going to dump me only to find out the very opposite. He wants to keep me, and he wants to move things to the next level. Compared to the fears I have carried around like a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach all day, this should feel freeing and joyous. This is what I wanted after all. What I still want.
So why then, I can’t help but wonder, am I feeling a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach, and why is a familiar light-headedness threatening to take me off my feet? Am I actually likely to swoon right now? Here in the park, in the middle of the grass with two dogs running in circles near me stopping periodically to pee?
Why is the wee voice in the back of my head whispering – no, screaming – ‘NOTHANKYOUVERYMUCH’ at me?
I need time to think. Conal is staring at me, his eyes wide, his expression filled with love and hope, and I will myself to do what Snow Patrol urge us to do and just say yes. I can worry about the logistics later. I can worry about the panic – because that is what this is – later.
I need to workshop these feelings, preferably with Niamh and Laura. Although, admittedly Laura might be a bad idea. Laura isn’t exactly neutral in this scenario. Fuck! And meanwhile Conal is still looking at me expectantly and I wonder if he can see the storm of conflicting emotions, feelings and thoughts all fighting for attention inside my brain.
I know I need to say something. Anything. I need to speak instead of just standing here, looking at him with, I realise, my mouth hanging open like an absolute bloody eejit.
‘Life is just so busy now, between your work, and my work, and our kids, and Clara, and the dogs, and your mum and…’
I nod. I nod and keep nodding as he talks but I’m no longer hearing what it is he is saying because I am just thinking that living together means things. Big things.
Commitment. My house, or his house? I love my house. I fought hard to keep it and maintain it after Simon left, buying him out and cutting back on everything so I could afford to pay for it singlehandedly. It is my safe place. But more than that, it is my secure place. I own it. Whatever happens I have a roof over my head and a front door to close at the end of the day. Conal is renting at the moment so him moving into my house would make sense – and I certainly don’t want to move. At least I don’t think I want to move. My house is my boys’ home. It always has been. I… I… I don’t know what to think because look at him! Look at my Conal, looking at me, that expectant and hopeful expression starting to slip and the brightness starting to dull in his eyes, and I feel like such an incredible bitch. It doesn’t make sense. It really doesn’t because I do categorically and emphatically love this man.
