What's a Girl Gotta Do? (16 page)

twenty-six

“Jeez, Lottie. You had that man literally eating out the palm of your hand,” Will said. “Well, not literally, but still.”

We were walking towards town in a triumphant splendour of adrenalin. The rest of the interview had been a breeze. And when Will said our first video had over two thousand views already, Dan practically exploded.

“Wow, this is a real story,” he said, scrolling through Will's laptop.

“You sound surprised.” I laughed. He didn't need to know most of the hits probably came from people at college watching it to take the piss out of me or leave hilarious comments. I'd had to report one already.

Lottie takes it up the arse.
A rumour that Teddy had started last year that refused to die. Or maybe he was the one who posted it.

“It was great to meet you, Lottie. Really great.” Dan had shaken my hand and got my name right and actually seemed genuinely keyed up by the story.

I didn't think I would be called Charlie again…

“How did you do it?” Will said, still in awe of me. I think he was starting to realize he'd underestimated me…

I shrugged, like it was nothing, even though my insides were doing the funky chicken.

“With activism you've got to connect with people on an emotional level – make them feel like we're all in this together. I just got him to realize he feels like I feel, just maybe about a different thing…”

I looked up at Will, who was still staring at me all agog. So much so that he stumbled over a small fallen branch.

I grinned. “This is why I can't win you over,” I said. “You're too logical and scientific in how you think. You don't have any emotional level for me to connect with.”

“Hey!”

“It's true! The only way I could convince someone like you that feminism is important and you should believe in it, is if I made a completely watertight logical argument…and even then…you'd find some minor issues with the method in which the data was collected or something and jump on that so you could feel all superior criticizing my efforts rather than focusing on the feelings – the desperation, the violence, the helplessness, the just…wrongness of it all.”

Will went quiet, kicking some leaves up, not looking at me any more. He muttered something.

“What's that? The rest of the class can't hear you.”

Despite himself, he smiled, though he still didn't look at me.

“I said,” he said louder, “there's nothing wrong with being logical.”

“No, not always.” I paused. “But I don't think you realize how upsetting it is when you feel someone's devaluing your experience. Look how angry me, Evie and Amber get at you. Do you ever think why? Do you ever think how it must feel to have horrible things you've seen or experienced judged and questioned by someone? Like it's our responsibility to convince you we're not lying, rather than yours just to believe us? Also” – I paused for breath – “logic is shit for social change. Look at climate change, for example. There's so much scientific evidence that we're destroying the planet – but nobody gives a damn until you shove a sad-looking polar bear on a tiny sheet of ice with a text-in number in front of them. Or imagine if Martin Luther King had stood up and started a speech with, ‘I have a…really good piece of data here that proves racism is A Thing.'”

Will stayed quiet, and I let the triumph of the interview spill over into triumph that his silence might mean that I'd got through to him… God, I was smart sometimes. I know you're not supposed to say that about yourself, but I really am freaking superbly smart a lot of the time.

“I don't mean to upset you with all my questions,” Will said, after a moment or two, his chin tucked down in what I was choosing to see as defeat. “I've told you, I'm a documentary maker. Do you not sometimes consider that it's my job to poke the nest? To get the best reaction out of you?”

“But you do it so gleefully!”

And he laughed. “I can't deny that's true.”

“Where we headed anyway?” I asked, realizing I hadn't really been noticing our route.

Will gave me another reluctant grin. “I was going to take us out for dinner. To celebrate. But now you're being so difficult, I'm not sure if I will.”

“You're taking me out for dinner?”

“Relax. It's just Pizza Express.”

“I can't relax when I know dough balls are a possibility.”

He kept smiling. “You like dough balls?”

“If that's an innuendo, it's a very bad and cringe one.”

“It was a simple question, Lottie. Not everything has to be dirty.”

We'd arrived outside the town's Pizza Express now, the basily aroma of pizza wafting out to us whenever the door opened to let stressed-looking families out. Our eyes met each other and we laughed. Him playing me, me playing him… Just like that he'd got our power dynamic back onto an even keel. I resentfully respected him for it.

“I can't let you pay for dinner,” I said. “The project…”

“Lottie, this isn't a date.” He said it simply, but it still felt harsh.

Why wasn't it a date? I instantly thought. Don't you want it to be a date? I gently stamped on one of my feet to jolt myself out of my pathetic girl spiral.

“It's two colleagues celebrating a good day at work,” he explained. “If it
was
a date, no, you couldn't let me pay by the way. I find that such bullshit! The amount of times I've gone out with girls to eat, and they just stare at me vacantly when the bill comes.”

I nodded. I agreed. It was inexcusable, really. You can't go around expecting gender equality one minute and then expect boys to pay for everything. My go-to rule on dates was always, always, to offer, then negotiate it between you. You buy this one, I'll buy the next one. Even when I was dating Posh Tim last year, who was infinitely richer than me.

“Fine then,” I said, “if it's not a date, you can SO pay. I'm getting double dough balls.”

Will bit his lip, resisting the urge to make another crap joke.

“I could never date anyone who gets double dough balls.”

“Well. I'd never date anyone who is so insecure about their own balls that they can't handle being around double helpings of the dough variety.”

I opened the door for him like a gentleman, and gestured him through. He got the joke, and curtsied.

“Oi. I'm not insecure about my balls!”

And we had dinner.

twenty-seven

“I still can't believe you ate two helpings of dough balls.” Will surveyed the array of empty plates between us.

“Don't forget the two extra bowls of garlic butter,” I added, sticking my stomach out and stroking it like a pregnant person. I turned sideways in my seat to show Will my food baby. “It's yours,” I said, all dramatically. “And I'm going to call it Quentin.”

Will arched his eyebrows at my expanding stomach.

“That is quite an accomplishment.”

I pushed my stomach out further. “I know. I grow the best food baby out of all my friends.”

His eyebrows went up further, if possible.

“You actually had a competition?”

I thought back to last February, when it had rained constantly for twenty days. Bored witless, Evie, Amber and I had challenged ourselves to eat a baked camembert each to see who made the biggest food baby.

“Oh yes. Evie and Amber made me a medal.” Out of a Mini Babybel…and I'd eaten it. And made myself sick…

His nose pulled up. “How attractive.”

“I don't care about being attractive.”

“Every girl cares a little bit, even feminists. Cognitive dissonance, but still.”

I thought about what he'd said as I looked around the restaurant, touched that he'd remembered my speech. Everyone's cutlery clink-clanked off the high ceilings, mixed with the screams of a tantruming toddler the other side of us.

“I guess I do,” I said. “But not like in a
change-who-I-am
way. I mean, how exhausting would that be? Having to pretend you're someone you're not all the time – to be a persona. It must be so hard. I mean…like you…”

“Yeah.” Will nodded, looking bored, though I was beginning to realize bored was just his resting face. He sat up. “Hang on! I don't pretend to be someone I'm not.”

I picked up my glass of wine and took a deep sip. “Don't you?”

“Of course I don't!”

“But you must spend so long crafting your facial hair that way.”

Will's hand went up to his immaculate mini-beard thing.

“And, like, don't you ever feel like watching a shitty movie, just sometimes? Because it's relaxing?”

He crossed his arms. “Define what constitutes a shitty movie.”

“I dunno. One of those comedies where everyone poos themselves on a stag do. Or when ten cars crash into each other.”

“I'd rather die.”

“So you genuinely like watching what? Important Oscar-winning films with loads of boring talking and acting? All the time? For fun?”

“Yes, Lottie, I do.”

“But you're not, like, actually this cocky, are you? Like, underneath it all you're desperately insecure and cling to your veneer of superiority like a safety blanket because you're scared, if you reveal the real you, everyone will hate it?”

He burst out laughing. “I am NOT superior.”

“You are. You SO are.” I drained my wine glass, letting its warm fuzziness make me feel all warm and fuzzy…and fuzzy…I'd had two large glasses…Will was paying. “You think you're better than everyone. You think you're better than feminism!” I gave him my best look over the rim of the glass.

“Just because people don't agree with you, doesn't mean they think they're superior.”

I put my glass down, a bit too loudly. “But I still don't understand how you can NOT agree with feminism! After everything you saw me do last week.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Honestly, we're going to have this conversation again?”

I scrunched up my napkin in my hand. “I just don't get it. I don't get you. You seem so smart…” I trailed off. And that's when I realized, Will
was
smart. He wasn't only an incredible documentary maker, but you could tell he was a deep thinker, and he was witty, and quick, and the sort of person I was quite sure gets As and Bs in his exams. How could someone that smart not agree with me? About something so undeniably right? Especially when they were so good-looking? I realized I didn't want to have this argument either. I was enjoying the meal, the wine, the glow in my tummy from the interview going well. The fact that I'd had enough wine to not be worrying about why Amber was inexplicably mad at me. To not be worrying about Megan and how lost she seemed. To not be worrying about my project – though, actually, I wasn't ever supposed to let that slip. So I admitted defeat and changed the subject.

“What got you into films then?” I asked, thinking, really, I hadn't ever asked him about himself. It was always him asking me questions, with that bloody lens shoved in my face. “Evie said it was Tim Burton who got her into films.”

Will literally shuddered. “Ergh, that is
so
Evie.”

“You are SO SUPERIOR!”

He smiled wolfishly. Like a sexy wolf. God, wolves really are quite sexy, aren't they, if you come to think of it? Or is that a weird thought to have?

“That one, I faked,” he said. “I actually like Tim Burton.”

“Oh my God, the boy can make a joke.”

He smiled again.

“So, why are you into films?”

He leaned back in his chair as he spoke – telling me about getting his first camera when he was young. (“God, do you remember when you actually put things in a DVD player?”) How all he wanted for his birthday was the newest equipment. He told me how he watched every single documentary on TV. (“The Attenboroughs, all the Panoramas, even those awful ones where they send cameramen to follow teenagers on their first holidays to Magaluf.”) His favourite film-maker was this German guy who made this one documentary about a man who lived with grizzly bears until he got eaten by one.

“Please don't call him a ‘German guy',” Will said, when I explained Evie liked the same person.

“Superior.”

And he laughed.

Will relaxed when he talked about film. After a while his voice lost its authoritarian tone and his real enthusiasm came through. He looked all boylike, his eyes sparkly beneath his glasses. His forehead stopped wrinkling in disapproval at everyone around him.

We were having the most lovely time, until the bill arrived.

The young waiter plopped it on the table, right in front of Will, without even giving me a glance. Will reached for it, but I grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“Excuse me,” I said loudly, to the back of the waiter who was already walking off.

Will twigged. “Lottie, don't. Come on, have a night off.”

“The patriarchy never has a night off.”

The waiter spun on his feet. “Is there a problem?” he asked, smiling, like nothing would ever be a problem if he just kept smiling like that.

I pointed to the small silver plate in front of Will. “I am capable of paying a bill,” I said. “My vagina doesn't prohibit me from paying for my own dough balls.”

It wasn't really necessary to use the word “vagina” – I winced the moment it came out. Will had turned bright red, his neck sinking into the starched collar of his posh shirt.

“I'm sorry, madam,” the waiter said. “If you're paying…” He pushed the plate over to me.

“I'm not paying. He is.” I gestured to the dying Will. The guy's face scrunched up. “Then I don't see the problem.”

I gritted my teeth – feeling guilty for Will, but a project was a project. A promise was a promise.

“The problem is…” I hated myself as the words came out. God it sounded petty…it
was
petty…but it was still sexism. “Is that you shouldn't just assume the boy is paying the bill. And also, while you're here…” Why was I still talking? I was definitely still talking. “When you brought the wine out to taste, why did you offer it to him? And not me? Do seventeen-year-old boys know more about wine than seventeen-year-old girls? Oh, yes, that's right…” I found myself smiling crazily. Will had turned fully red – there wasn't a single part of his face that wasn't totally tomato. “We're not eighteen… Soz.” I shrugged, keeping the manic grin across my face.

“I'll…umm…” The waiter looked completely broken. Not, like, emotionally broken – but just confused broken. “I'll get the manager.”

I found myself waving my finger at him – okay, so two large glasses of wine was definitely my limit. “You do that.”

The second he'd stridden off towards the kitchen, still shaking his head in bafflement, I leaned across the table.

“We need to go. Now.”

Will was shaking his head, cringe bleeding all over his facial expressions. “Lottie, like, really?” His voice was shaking. “There was no need. It was just a bill. He was just nearer my side of the table…”

“There IS a need. But you can yell at me once we're outside. Come on now, GO.”

I looked behind me – we didn't have long. I wasn't sure if you could get arrested for drinking underage, or if it was just the restaurant that got into trouble. I didn't particularly want to find out though.

Will's eyes were all wide as he fumbled with his many bags of camera equipment.

“Will, just dump some money on the table and run!”

He scrambled in his pocket, yanked out a few notes, flung them hysterically onto the silver plate I'd found so offensive, and then took off in front of me. I flung my own bag over my shoulder and ran after him, ignoring the tables of people who gawped at us, forkfuls of pizza paused mid-air on the journey to their mouths. Just as I pushed against the big glass door, I turned and saw the waiter and some other guy in a suit stride out of the kitchen. They saw our empty table and looked up.

“Hey,” the waiter yelled, walking faster.

“Will – run!” And with my heart going absolutely berserk, I threw myself after him, the door slamming behind me. The cold winter air hit my lungs as my boots thudded heavily on the concrete. We sprinted past other restaurants and past the giant Starbucks, and then Will dived left into a little alleyway that took us into the car park of the local Waitrose. It was pretty quiet as it was a Monday night but there were enough parked cars to provide cover. We ran across it, my lungs gasping for air. Then Will ducked down behind a parked Range Rover and pulled me down with him.

There was silence, apart from the gasping sound of us regaining our breath. We peered out, waiting for the police, or an angry crowd with torches and pitchforks. Neither arrived.

After five minutes, we both leaned back against the car, breathing in a more measured way. I'd stopped wheezing, for instance. Which was good. Because I'd never wheezed before.

I turned to Will, who was still flattened against the car like he was about to get shot.

“So…” I tried to keep my voice light, knowing he was pissed off. “That was a new experience. Shall we go for dinner again next week?”

His eyebrows furrowed and his voice came out super strained.

“There was absolutely no need for any of that,” he managed to say.

“Ahh, come on. It was fun.”

He shot me a glance. A glance that said
none of that was fun.

“What was I supposed to do? Ignore the rules of my project just because you were paying for two batches of dough balls?”

He stood up suddenly, his camera bags clashing against each other, and started walking away. I watched him for a second – stunned – then chased after him.

“Hey, what's your problem?”

He didn't answer me – just kept on striding.

“Come on, Will. What did you want me to do? Just leave it?”

He stopped and flung himself round. “Yes! That's exactly what I wanted you to do!”

“But…the project…” I didn't understand. It wasn't like he was new to the idea. He'd been filming it for over a week.

“It was just one stupid little thing,” he said. “I mean…it's just a bill. It's just someone on minimum wage, putting a bill slightly more in front of me than in front of you… There was no need. NO NEED…for… Argh… God, that was so embarrassing. YOU are so embarrassing.”

I stopped walking, tears prickling in my eyes almost instantly. I blinked them back, using them, turning them to anger…I was practised at that.

“No, YOU'RE EMBARRASSING,” I screamed after him, my voice echoing around the mostly empty car park. “You're more than happy to hide behind a camera when I'm putting myself out there, totally humiliating myself EVERY DAY for a good cause. But THE MOMENT you have to go through even a HINT of what I've been through this past week…” I started walking again, catching him up… “No, you totally wig out like a fucking…” I couldn't think of a word, I was too furious… “Fucking…GIRL…” I found myself shouting. Then I stopped walking. Will picked up on it too.

He turned, his smug little face still all red.

“Oh, that's great. That's just great. Are you going to custard pie yourself?” he asked. He was so jeery, we needed a new word for jeery…maybe jeery actually is a new word…

“Oh NOW you agree there's sexism? When I say something sexist that helps you win an argument? WHAT A SURPRISE.”

I wasn't sure where all this anger was coming from, but it was coming from somewhere and there was a lot of it.

“It was just one bill!” Will shouted. “A tiny little bill!”

“It's never a tiny anything!” I yelled back. “That's the whole point! That's why we're here. That's why we're doing this. That's why we – annoyingly – have to spend all this fucking awful time together! Because it's NEVER JUST A BILL. It's the whole thing… It's invisible…it's lots of little things…and they make the big bad things happen…and…”

“Well, if you hate spending time with me so much, then I'm out,” he shouted. “You need me more than I need you.”

Panic. Panic set in. He couldn't be out… We needed a cameraman…argh…argh…

“Oh, will you get over yourself?” I screamed. Because screaming abuse at him was so likely to make him stay. “The one moment you had to participate, about something as ‘silly' as a bill, you said it yourself, and you're out?” I started clapping. Because sarcastic applause was CERTAINLY going to make him stay. “Well done, Mr Neutral. Why not go film some dying people in a war and not do anything about it? And get annoyed when they bleed on you?”