“So, like, what’s up, girlfriend?” she says in her best D4 voice. “Gimme a C. C! Gimme an L. L! Gimme an O. O!” I laugh. “What are you doing, Clover?” “OMG! Sylvie’s just told me that Mills tried out for the All Saints. How could you let it happen, Greenster? Have I taught you nada? Cheerleading is so antifeminist that it’s in another ballpark on another galaxy.” She shakes her head and gives a deep, drawn-out sigh. In a French accent, she says, “Oh, ze young women of today, what is to become of zem? Tell me zat. Moi, Simone de Beauvoir, I am turning in my grave.” Her accent changes to BBC News English: “And was it for this that poor old Emily Wilding Davison, RIP, threw herself under a horse? Answer me that.” Clover’s been taking a feminist literature course at Trinity College, and Simone de Beauvoir is one of her new heroes, along with Emmeline Pankhurst and other suffragettes who chained themselves to railings to get the vote for women. She smiles at me so I know she’s only joking.
