Chasing Charlie by Linda McLaughlan Page B

women’s mothers marched the streets demanding equality, and got labelled men-hating dykes.’ I’d have to ask my mother if she’d ever been mistaken for a lesbian. I tried picturing her protesting in her Louis Vuitton suit, her thin, elegant legs, and her perfect ankles. Hmmm, difficult. Then I tried to imagine my father, in one of his beautiful suits, cheering her on. No. Despite his liberal political views, I just couldn’t picture it. I kept on.
    â€˜These women did so much. Gave us “women can do anything”. And now we wear whatever we want, study what we want, pursue careers, travel the world and go out with whoever. Do all of that. But we can’t dress up like sluts, enjoy it and garner any respect for it.’
    Jill started shaking into her sandwich.
    â€˜What?’ I frowned at her. I wasn’t joking.
    â€˜Shame!’ That was Jill’s favourite saying, said swiftly, almost swallowed. She put her sandwich down. ‘Look at you, most often dressed in a miniskirt and tarty heels, cleavage fit for a high diver to land in, bleached blonde hair, Angelina pout. You’re gorgeous and you’re respected, with a great job. You’re the envy of most of the women who work here and fuelling fantasies for most men. What’s the problem? Where’s this all coming from?’
    I sighed. ‘Oh I don’t know. Maybe a dormant feminist gene is finally coming to life and telling the other genes committed to being a siren that they aren’t self-respecting enough.’
    Jill shook her head again. ‘Poor sexy Claud, my heart bleeds for you, it really does.’ She paused and then her voice became serious. ‘Is there something really concerning you, Claud?’ she asked, her brown eyes trained on me like two searchlights.
    I struggled to meet her gaze. Could I tell her? Maybe I could. I opened my mouth to speak but a bulging crotch caught my eye. It was hovering just above the table, looking like it was going to plop down onto it. It could only belong to one person. I looked up – it was Tightpants himself.
    He stood there grinning, with a big tray of food. ‘Can I join you ladies?’ he asked.
    â€˜Ah . . .’ said Jill, looking at me for an answer.
    â€˜Of course you can,’ I said quickly and motioned for him to sit down. Jill didn’t need to hear about my problems anyway. She had a hard enough job keeping her fourteen-year-old from falling pregnant.
    â€˜Thanks.’ John sat down opposite me, his cologne wafting gently over the table. I looked at his tray of food rather than look at his face. Bouillabaisse and the cheesecake, exactly what I’d almost finished eating.
    â€˜So what have the ladies been talking about?’ he said.
    â€˜Oh this and that, nothing really,’ I said quickly.
    â€˜Nothing important?’ Jill raised her eyebrows again at me and then turned to John – the last person I wanted to discuss this with.
    â€˜It’s not important that women get to dress and be who they want to be without apologising for it?’ she said.
    â€˜Sounds serious.’ John grinned.
    â€˜It is serious,’ I found myself saying.
    â€˜Do you mean women should be able to wear their trackies into work?’ John asked.
    â€˜No, the opposite. That women should be able to dress like saucy tarts and not be thought any less of,’ said Jill.
    John said nothing for a moment and then said quietly, ‘Do women really get that much grief when they look hot? Or are they just appreciated more?’
    I didn’t say a thing.
    â€˜According to Claudia, possibly not,’ Jill said for me.
    I shot her a warning look, which she pretended not to see.
    John feigned shock. ‘Claudia? Since when did you worry about such trivial things as what people might think of you? You’re a confident and intelligent woman who knows who she is. There isn’t anything more attractive than