Chapter Five

Day Three

Elizabeth

Elizabeth snuggled further into the mattress. Henry was nestled behind her, knee hooked over her hip, arm slung across her waist, their fingers knotted together and clutched against her stomach. He enveloped her; his weight, his warmth, his scent—sandalwood and cinnamon. And the beat of his heart echoed through her, the rhythm a lulling hum.

Her eyelids fluttered open. Greeted by the white light that scattered through the net curtains, she winced and her head throbbed. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Who knew you could get a hangover from crying?

Henry shifted behind her, and his grip across her waist tightened. He nuzzled against her neck, his voice groggy and muffled by her skin as he spoke. "How're you feeling?"

The top ten photos, the poll, 'I would, wouldn't you?'; they all flashed through her mind, far harsher than the sunlight. "Like today's gonna suck."

Henry rubbed his thumb over her fingers.

She lifted her head from the pillow and turned to catch his eye. "It's gonna suck, right?"

"Probably." His lips tugged into a sorry smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled—so concerned, so kind. "And tomorrow might too."

She let out a sharp sigh and fell back against the pillow.

Henry squeezed her hand. "Hey, how about I take you out for lunch? Take your mind off things?"

"I can't." Elizabeth propped herself up, and Henry sat up too. She eased back against the headboard and raked one hand through her hair. "I have that presentation today, honouring the girls who wrote those essays about the importance of empowering women…" Her stomach sank, and she shot Henry a grim smile. "…seems a bit ironic."

Henry laid his hand against her thigh. "Things will get better, babe."

She nodded, and her gaze lowered to her lap. "I know." And they always did, though sometimes they had to get worse first. She met Henry's eye. "Can you tell I've been crying?"

Henry's expression faltered.

She winced. "That bad, huh?"

His lips tugged to one side. "A little puffy."

She toyed with the buttons of the shirt she had acquired. "I guess that's what you get when you save it all up…" And her heart ached so much that it felt empty. Henry rubbed her thigh, but before he could say anything, before they could broach that again, she shook her head to herself, and forcing a smile, she looked him in the eye. "I'm fine."

He nodded. His hand stilled. "But if you're ever not…"

"I know." She cupped his cheek and leant in to kiss his lips, gentle but lingering, like a pool of sunshine surrounded by shadow as clouds sailed by. "Thank you." Then she crawled past him and clambered out his side of the bed.

The air was brisk after the embrace of his body and the covers, and she hugged his shirt around her, though the cotton did little to fend off the chill that shivered through her skin. On the bedside table, there was a business card emblazoned with a news network logo—one with a more tabloid slant. Henry's gaze must have followed her own, because before she could ask, he said, "They wanted me to make a comment, but I said no."

Elizabeth nodded. Good. Though at what point did silence become condonation?


"Good morning." Elizabeth headed straight for the coffee on the desk just inside the conference room. She handed Blake her coat and offered him a small smile as he met her with an anxious pout, and then she poured herself a cup. She snatched up one of the blueberry muffins from the tray in the middle of the table and then slumped down into her seat. She eyed her staff. "I'm aware of the photos on the show last night. It's unfortunate that this has become an issue, but I'd like us to press on as normal."

Daisy's eyes widened, her lips parted.

Elizabeth looked to her. "Daisy?"

"With the hashtag still trending, I'm being flooded with requests for a comment," Daisy said, "and after last night, it's bound to come up in the press briefing." Her tone was strained; perhaps it was getting to everyone.

"I don't want to draw any more attention to this," Elizabeth said, "let alone give it any kind of legitimacy. Let's just focus on our work." She glanced to Jay. "Is everything set for the presentation at lunchtime?"

Jay quickly chewed and swallowed his bite of muffin, and dusted down his hands. He nodded, and was about to speak when Blake jumped up from his chair in the corner, one finger poised in the air. "Um…ma'am—"

Russell Jackson stormed into the room. His frown was so deep that it cast the rest of expression into darkness, and his temple pulsated. "Why is it that when I turned on the news this morning, all I could see was pictures of your legs?"

The room plunged into silence. The trills of phones and the chatter of their colleagues drifted through from the outer office. Elizabeth's staff turned to look at Russell, before their gazes darted back to her—back, forth, back, forth.

Elizabeth's jaw clenched. She flattened her palms against the desk, pushed herself up to standing and met his glare with equal ferocity.

Russell's expression eased a little, and he lowered his voice to a hiss. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Bess, but what people think about you affects how they think about the White House, about the president." He pointed one finger at her. "You need to get a handle on this. Now."

Kat's lips twisted. "You're kidding, right? You can't actually think that any of this is her fault." She snorted. "Or perhaps you think all women should cover their ankles lest they tempt the virtuous minds of men." She shook her head to herself and murmured, "What harpies we all are."

Russell glowered at Kat. "What the—?" He looked back to Elizabeth, brow furrowed. He pointed to Kat. "I have no idea what's she's talking about. Just sort it out, Bess. Today." He turned to leave.

But Elizabeth called after him. "This isn't China, Russell—"

He stalled.

"—I don't have control over the media, social or otherwise." She folded her arms across her chest. "And I certainly don't get a kick out of my legs dominating the news cycle any more than you do."

Russell stepped back into the room. "I don't need a lecture on the pitfalls of free speech." His eyes bugged. "What I need is for you to change the narrative."

"How?"

"I don't know." He gestured as if conjuring the solution from the air. "Work your magic. Just get it away from 'I would, wouldn't you?'."


Jason

The pictures were everywhere. Stuck to lockers, plastered to the walls, pinned to the noticeboards. And all of them bore the hashtag 'I would, wouldn't you?'. Jason kept his gaze low, his mouth pinched into a pout as he walked down the hall towards his classroom. With every step, every hush, every snicker, anger fizzled through him like acid in his veins. He clenched his fists around the straps of his backpack, and his fingernails dug into his palms. Why did people have to act like such jerks? Why did they have to do this to his mom? The acid roiled and he could just—

You want people to respect Mom, right? Then we need to respect her too.

His father's words came to him. He took a deep breath and held it until it felt as though his chest might burst. Then he let it flow out, and the heat that coursed through him cooled. Maybe he would never make these people see what they had done wrong, but at least he wouldn't make it worse. Even if that meant biting his tongue so hard that it bled.


Mrs Henshaw turned away from the class and wrote up the second example on the board.

"Hey. McCord."

Something hit the back of Jason's head. He spun round. From the back row, Stephen and his duo of braindead sidekicks smirked at him and gestured to the wad of paper on the floor.

Jason stooped down and picked it up. He flattened it out against his desk. His mom. The 'do me' skirt. And some rather crude diagrams. Heat flared through his cheeks, and his whole body burned; every vessel, every nerve raged with fire.

Peals of laughter echoed from the back of the class. Jason shot to his feet, so fast that the chair clattered to the floor. He scrunched the paper into his fist, snatched up his backpack and then barged through the rows of desks and fled from the room.

"Jason—" Mrs Henshaw called after him.

But he stalked off down the corridor. He unzipped his bag and tore down picture after picture after picture and stuffed them inside. Perhaps it was futile. Perhaps they'd just print more and the walls would be covered again by lunchtime. But for a moment the lockers were bare and his mind caught glimpses of peace; if only it were so easy to rip down the images online.


Elizabeth

Knock, knock.

Elizabeth glanced up from the couch in her office. "Come in." She clunked her mug down on the coffee table as Daisy stepped inside.

"We're almost ready for you, ma'am." Daisy stopped by the armchairs that faced the table, her hands clutched in front of her. "I just wanted to check that you're sure about this…what with you know…we could get someone else to give the presentation instead."

"You heard Russell Jackson: we need to change the narrative." Elizabeth shook her head. "Besides, I'm not changing my schedule because of what people on Twitter have said."

Daisy's lips pulled into a taut line, and she nodded. Acceptance if not agreement.

Elizabeth shrugged, her voice lifted. "Besides, how bad can it be?" She forced a smile, though everything inside felt like it was sinking, determined to drag it down.

The presentation room buzzed, the air alive with the fast-paced chatter of the competition winners and their parents. Journalists crowed the far end of the room, and a couple of photographers drifted through, the snap and flash of their cameras adding to the atmosphere. A clamour swept through as Elizabeth stepped up to the podium, and then the room settled into a hush. Elizabeth glanced down at her notes for the speech, looked up at the audience and opened her mouth to begin.

Then it happened. A wolf whistle cut through the air. Sharp and clear.

Elizabeth's tongue stumbled, and she fought back the blush that threatened to rise through her cheeks. She took a deep breath. Her mind swam, full of incoherent snatches of thought. Crass, inappropriate, disrespectful. Then it spiralled. A rush of images, a memory montage, stained with voices from the past.

She's a girl. She'll never be given the same respect that a man in her position would.

Books are one thing, but looks…looks will get you everywhere.

The rules for men and women are different in this world. No matter what you do, you'll have to work twice as hard for only half the credit. And even then not everyone will take you seriously.

We're just trying to protect you, Elizabeth.

I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong.

Her stomach clenched, and bile surged through her throat. Bitter. Acid. Burning.

"Ma'am?" Daisy had stepped up to the podium. Her wide eyes and tense lips brought a whole new meaning to her 'anxious face'.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, and slowly, like a spinning top losing momentum, the images whirled to a stop. But there was one more voice, one last echo. You asked if this is a game that you can't win. But you can. Just be you, do what you've always done, and keep making up your own rules. She let out a sharp breath and then opened her eyes. God bless that man. She plastered on a smile, nodded to Daisy and whispered, "I'm fine."


Jason

The television blared in the den and filled the house with its jarring hum. Jason strode through the kitchen, past the sofa where Alison and Stevie were curled up on either end, and straight out the back door. He shrugged his bag from his back and then flipped open the lid of the bin. He grabbed fistfuls of the photos and dumped them inside, watching as they fluttered down and mingled with the trash.

"What are you doing?" Alison's voice came from behind him, and a second later she stooped down and snatched a handful of photos from his bag. "Oh. My. God."

Jason stopped and turned around just as Stevie stepped outside too.

Stevie peered over Alison's shoulder and frowned down at the photos.

Jason's mouth turned dry. "Some guys at school—"

Alison held up the images. "Please tell me you said something."

"I—" Jason began.

His sisters' faces flashed with anger.

His pulse surged, a thud in his ears, and his voice squeaked as he said, "Dad told me not to."

"Jay-son." Stevie broke down his name. "You can't let people do this."

Jason threw his hands up. "Then what exactly am I meant to do? If I try saying anything, they don't get it or don't listen or I just make things worse." He looked to Alison. "It's not like before with you and Thad Newton. Mom's Secretary of State, and this isn't just one person."

"No," Stevie said, "it's an attitude."

"I get it—"

"No, you don't." Alison shook her head. "You can't possibly understand." She thrust the photos at him, one by one, and he fumbled to catch them. "You don't have to worry that what you're wearing will give people the 'wrong impression'; you don't have to deal with daily harassment just because you're a girl; you don't have to fear walking home alone at night, or maintain this constant vigilance because anyone might think you're 'asking for it'."

No longer able to meet their gazes, Jason scowled at the floor, his face flushed with shame. "Dad said that Mom didn't want me to say anything."

"Dad said, Dad said," Alison echoed. "Like he understands."

"You saw what Mom looked like this morning," Stevie said. Eyes puffy, face drained. "She's obviously been crying. Just because she says nothing, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want to."

"And it doesn't mean that everyone else should stay silent too," Alison said.

Cats hissed and howled in the neighbour's yard, and engines droned from the road as cars sailed by. Jason tipped the last of the photos in the bin and then looked to his sisters. "Then what should I do?"

"Use your voice," Alison said, "and empower women to use their voices too."


Henry

Henry was sat on the couch in the den, his feet up on the coffee table. He stared down at the book in his hand, whilst silent images flashed across the television screen. The darkness seeped in from outside, and a slight chill ruffled the curtains, but the low lighting of the lamps furnished the room with a cosy glow, like the embers of a campfire that danced with the shadows and chased them away into the night.

The cushions shifted behind him. He flinched, snapped out of his trance. Elizabeth's watch glinted as she slid her hand over his shoulder and down his chest before she leant in and kissed his cheek. He covered her hand with his own and lifted it to his lips. A kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered against him, and his body flooded with a different kind of warmth; one not measured in degrees. He linked his fingers through hers and guided her around the end of the couch and down onto the cushion next to him.

With her feet tucked beneath her, Elizabeth rested her head against Henry's shoulder, whilst he wrapped his arm around her and traced circles through the sleeve of her blouse. "How was your day?" he asked, his voice muffled by her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

A silence settled between them, broken only by the faint music that drifted down the stairs. She moved her fingers idly over his shirt, the touch light yet tingling through the skin beneath. "Some guy wolf whistled at me during the presentation—"

Henry tensed, and her hand stilled.

"—but I managed not to have meltdown. That's something, I guess."

He frowned. "A journalist?"

She nodded.

"Well that's unprofessional."

"I think he's looking for a new profession after Daisy yelled at his editor." She eased away from him and then lay down, her head in his lap as she stared up at the ceiling, her feet rested against the arm of the couch. Her eyes were distant, drained, her voice hushed almost to a whisper. "Somewhere these lines get blurred. People post stuff online that they would never say in the real world, until one day it slips over and it's like the boundary never existed at all."

Henry stroked her hair, teasing out the soft strands. "There's still a line between right and wrong."

Her gaze shifted to meet his own, her eyes sharper now. "I think we both know that line's the blurriest of all." And the look she gave him made his heart pound.

How much had the contours of their own beliefs shifted in the last few years? Like maps constantly being redrawn to incorporate territories they have never known to exist until some unthinkable situation forced them to venture across those lands.

"Harassment's still harassment," he said, and he clutched the hand that rested atop her stomach.

"But a comment, a tweet, a wolf whistle…they're not the same as what Andrada did." She held his eye for a moment, and his breath stilled.

Another thing that they ought to talk about that she had swept away, tidied into some closet of her mind, until it grew and contorted and burst out, no longer able to be contained. Or perhaps it had already escaped, another subtler layer beneath the outrage and grief.

She shook her head, and her gaze returned to the ceiling; the moment gone. "Russell came to the office, all but blamed me for what happened—"

"It's not your fault." He squeezed her hand and brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"I know," she said, her voice flat. "He demanded that I fix it, move the narrative away from 'I would, wouldn't you?'. But maybe you can't do that. Maybe it will always be there, so long as people hold these beliefs."

He frowned. Some words cannot be unwritten, but maybe, just maybe they could be reclaimed.

"Did you speak to Will?" Her voice cut through his thoughts.

"Hmm?" His mind raced to catch up with the conversation. "Oh yeah. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world."

Elizabeth groaned. She rolled onto her side, and then eased herself up to sitting and perched on the edge of the cushion.

Henry rubbed her back through the silk of her blouse. "I thought you wanted him to come."

"I do, but he's going to make jokes about me getting old." She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eye. "One comment about hip replacements and I swear I'll throttle him."

Henry's lips twisted into a smirk. "If you ask me, your hips work just fine."


Jason

Hidden in the shadows cast by the railings, Jason hugged his knees to his chest. The music that floated down from Alison's room enveloped him and intensified his own pocket of silence. His parents chatted away on the couch, and the ease of their conversation said that they hadn't noticed his presence. Though their public displays of affection carved out an endless chasm of embarrassment, something about the way they talked—uninhibited, flowing, one mind gliding from thought to thought—soothed him, a kind of comfort blanket that he still clung to.

His mother shifted and lay down, only her feet now visible against the arm of the sofa. "Somewhere these lines get blurred. People post stuff online that they would never say in the real world, until one day it slips over and it's like the boundary never existed at all."

"There's still a line between right and wrong," his father said.

"I think we both know that line's the blurriest of all."

"Harassment's still harassment."

"But a comment, a tweet, a wolf whistle…they're not the same as what Andrada did."

Jason frowned, and his stomach clenched. What had Andrada done?

"Russell came to the office, all but blamed me for what happened—"

"It's not your fault."

"I know."

But it sounded as though she didn't believe that at all. Perhaps that's what Alison had meant about giving the 'wrong impression'; the false notion that somehow his mother was responsible for other people's thoughts.

"He demanded that I fix it, move the narrative away from 'I would, wouldn't you?'. But maybe you can't do that. Maybe it will always be there, so long as people hold these beliefs."

It's an attitude. An attitude that spawned crude comments, an acceptance of objectification, the erosion of women's worth. And what were the women in his life worth? His mother, his sisters, his friends. Worth more than silence, surely, worth standing up for. Use your voice, and empower women to use their voices too. But what about when speech wasn't enough? What do you do then? His mother had already given him the answer to that: Symbols are louder than words.

Jason crept up the stairs. He grabbed the 'do me' skirt that his mother had discarded on the landing and then padded along the hall to Alison's door. He knocked. When she didn't answer, he pushed the door open just a fraction, enough to peek inside. Alison was sat at her desk. Her hand swept across the page as she sketched out the contours of her design.

"Hey," Jason said.

Alison looked up.

"Will you help me make something?"

"What?" Alison frowned.

Jason held up the skirt. "A symbol."