‘OK, I’ll tell you.’ Louise sounds put out by our disinterest, then sighs dramatically. ‘Right, so listen to this.’ She has her prosecutorial opening statement prepared. ‘Sven comes over last night and he asks me within, like, five minutes, if I’m “OK”.’ She looks between us all, eyes wide. ‘Can you believe it, you guys? Am I “OK”? he asks me in this really soft, kindly voice. Like I’m sooo fragile and about to explode. But Iwastotally OK! I wasn’t being weird or anything at all, I was actually being super nice, and he asks me if I’m “OK”! So I say of course I’m fine, and he gives me this hug like he doesn’t believe me, and then says, “Are you sure?”?’ She throws her hands up, looking to me for support, so I try my best to look horrified. ‘What evenisthat?! Am IsureI’m OK, because clearly I’m being so weird and difficult. I was being nice, I swear! The dickhead! So then I got really passive-aggressive and asked him ifhewas OK and he said yes, all cheerfully. Then of course I got in a huff and wasn’t actually OK – but did he ask me again after that if I was OK?’
Her eyes get wider, awaiting an answer and I offer a hesitant, ‘No?’
‘Obviously not.’ She tuts furiously. ‘He’s so out of order.’
I nod supportively, while Sofia looks underwhelmed. ‘This is not an argument,’ she says gravely. ‘I once threw a chair through a window.’
‘Cool,’ Bibi murmurs.
‘So anyway,’ Lou sighs. ‘Now we’re in a stalemate where I maliciously do nice things for him so he has to say a resentful thank you even though we’re in a bad mood with each other.’
‘Aha, the faux high ground,’ Bibi says, and we smirk at each other.
‘I usually love him, though,’ Louise adds to Sofia, as an afterthought. ‘Mostly, like, loads!’
Sofia has lost interest – in Louise’s underwhelming long-term bickering and in our spying. She flounces dramatically and says, ‘Cannot we just go in?’
‘We’ll have to,’ Bibi pronounces. ‘How likely is it that he’s just going to wander out in the middle of Saturday lunch for us to get a look at him?’
‘Does he definitely even work here?’ Louise asks unhelpfully.
‘I will google him,’ Sofia says, pulling out her phone with a flourish. ‘What is his surname?’
Louise scrunches up her face. ‘What is it again, Esther? It’s a posh-sounding surname, right?’
‘Paul D’Silva,’ I say in a serious voice. ‘Ooh, imagine if I was Esther D’Silva – that’s quite something isn’t it?’
‘Ugh!’ Sofia spits. ‘You would change your name if you got married? Why would you do such a thing? How can you spend your whole life with a name and an identity andthen throw it away to blend into a man’s life? To assume his identity instead? It is grotesque!’
I squirm, embarrassed by my lapse in feminism. ‘Um, I don’t know. I guess I’d only do it if it was a super cool new name like Esther D’Silva.’
‘Humph!’ Sofia says, glaring at me, and Bibi moves closer to the older woman.
‘Sofia,’ she begins slowly. ‘No disrespect meant, because we know your generation began the feminism journey for us. But our lot understand that feminism is about having choices. It’s about having the freedom – literal and societal – to make your own way without a vagina forcing you down just one path. If Esther wants to change her name or stay at home in an apron baking pies, she can do that. As long as she doesn’t feel obliged or pressured into it by society or a partner. She gets to choose.’
‘Fine.’ Sofia waves her hand. ‘But remember, I did not wear a bra for a decade on your behalf, OK?’ We nod gratefully. ‘My boobies are down around my vulva, OK?’ she carries on and we bow our heads, suitably humbled. ‘My nipples point at my feet.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Louise whispers. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Sofia says nobly.
‘So I can be Mrs Paul D’Silva?’ I crow, delightedly.
And it’s not until I feel a tap on my shoulder that I realize we’ve not only got very loud in the last few minutes, but we’re standing out on the pavement, right by the restaurant.
EX 4: PAUL D’SILVAAKA The Missed ChancePART TWO
TheSwanSwab
Table in the corner
10.23pm
‘Honestly, it’s driving me bananas,’ I wail, head in hands. ‘I keep thinking they’ve gone, and then it happens again.’ I hiccup so loudly, people at the next table look over. A small child up way past its bedtime points at me and starts crying. I give its parents a weak wave and mouth, ‘Sorry.’
‘They’re pretty dramatic,’ Paul agrees, sipping his sherry.
‘HICCUP,’ I go again, feeling like crying. ‘The weird thing is that I also have “Defying Gravity” fromWickedstuck in my head. Every time I hiccup, my brain reaches the crescendo bit where she’s flying.’
