Several years ago – Mount Holyoke College:
“I do think this has all gone a bit too far,” I said as I watched as Amelia Fenton was paraded around the grounds of Mount Holyoke college before being made to burn all the clothes she owned, one pretty garment at a time, dropping them, under the supervision of the Sorority Sisters, into a burning coal brazier that coughed up oily black smoke. Her once beautiful blonde hair, once so perfectly styled, had been rudely cropped by scissors and a cheap eclectic hair trimmer so that it was now just an uneven clump about her head, no more than a few centimetres long in places. Instead of the shimmering silk blouse and short leather miniskirt she had been ill-advised to wear last night when she had left the campus grounds to visit a night club in the town centre, she now wore an ugly one-piece boiler suit, a few sizes too big for her. The fabric was a dull, institutional colour of tired grey and it had gone soft in the wrong places while staying stiff where it ought to bend. The shoulders drooped, the torso sagged, and the legs bunched and wrinkled, swallowing her shape without even the decency of symmetry. The fit was especially unforgiving: too tight across the hips, too loose through the waist, it managed the rare trick of both straining and bagging at the same time. Seams pulled awkwardly when she moved, while excess cloth ballooned at her back and knees, creasing in thick, stubborn folds. The zipper never seemed to sit flat, and the cuffs dragged just enough to look careless without being practical. Even the pockets gaped uselessly, adding bulk where none was wanted. It made her look lumpy and unattractive, which was the point. Two of the large Sorority Sisters watched her as they stood holding switches. We all knew the girls – Trinny Marston and Victoria Hearst – both tall, strong looking, and broad through the shoulders, thick in the arms, weight carried low and solid, as if each step was part of a military march. Their faces were composed of plain and sturdy lines - jaws set, noses blunt, brows heavy enough to shade the eyes.
Their uniform clothing reinforced this impression: long skirts, long enough to brush the tops of their calf high leather boots, cut generously so the fabric never clung to their legs, and heavy enough that it refused to flutter. The wool was thick and densely woven, the sort meant to last decades, and it hung with a weight that gave each of their movements a deliberate cadence. The skirt colour was dark and practical - something between charcoal and brown - chosen less for beauty than for service. Creases fell straight from the waistband, held in place by the stiffness of the cloth, and I could hear the faint hush of wool against wool as the folds brushed one another, as the women passed by our table. Both women wore loose black shirts, neatly buttoned, and straw boater hats on their heads, from which the ends of a single white ribbon trailed down the lengths of their backs. They stood ramrod straight as they walked, carrying switches in their right hands, occasionally pushing a crying Amelia Fenton forward when her pace slackened.
I had seen this before, for the Sorority Sisters had been clamping down on sluttish behaviour on campus, with the turning of a blind eye that our local police liaison officer, Maureen Cross, offered when it came to matters of female morality. Amelia Fenton would only make things worse for herself if she chose to complain to Officer Cross.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t say that to Miss Marston or Miss Hearst,” said an idle looking Bryony Addison as she sipped delicately through a straw at her old-fashioned bottle of Coca-Cola, and pretended to be reading her study notes, which frankly bored her, “or you’ll be next in line for a boiler suit and a brutal haircut.”
That was what Amelia Fenton would have to wear now, at least until she was judged to have learnt her lesson. She would also be subject to a 9 pm bedtime curfew in her campus room, and her mobile phone would be confiscated by the Sorority Sisters. She would not be permitted any Social Media going forwards.
Both Bryony and I were on our best behaviour and dressed accordingly. We both wore the type of garments that brough tacit approval from our Sorority Sisters: a neatly pressed skirt falling well below the knee, cut straight and modest, swaying only slightly when we walked around the campus grounds, matched with a pale blouse,
carefully tucked into the skirt, the collar buttoned high, sleeves ending precisely at the wrist. Over the blouse we each wore a cardigan, conservative in colour—navy in my case, and bottle green in Bryony’s case - its lines tidy but restrained, emphasizing correctness rather than figure. Nothing clinged to us. Nothing emphasised the natural curves of our bodies. Nothing invited attention. Even our belt and shoes seemed neutral in tone: sensible leather flats and low heels, polished but unremarkable, made for walking hallways, not turning heads.
“How are my favourite girls?” asked Elijah Bannon as he appeared and sat down next to us on the bench and table where we were revising for our final exams. He leaned forward and kissed Bryony lightly on the tip of her nose before turning his attention to me. “Has my girl been behaving herself, Ashlee?” he asked.
“Bryony is studying, or at least pretending to,” I said as Elijah insisted on sitting between us. I moved up to give him room when it was obvious he had no intention of sitting anywhere else.
I felt Elijah’s hand stray underneath the outdoor table and settle on my skirted knee. I gave him an annoyed look as I pushed his hand away without saying anything – a reaction that just made him chuckle. He had been acting like this quite a bit lately as we moved closer and closer to our graduation day. Bryony was either blind or chose to deliberately not notice. I had mentioned Elijah’s familiarity to Michael Emery on occasion, thinking he might grow jealous and have words with Elijah, but to my annoyance he dismissed such things as Elijah just joking around and being friendly. Either that, or he thought I was overreacting, because Elijah never did anything when Michael was with me.
“I’m bored revising,” declared Bryony Addison as she ran her fingers along the length of her tidy pony tail. It’s all a waste of time anyway. Addison girls never fail to graduate at Mount Holyoke. It just doesn’t happen. And it’s not like I’m ever going to have job,” she laughed. “Addison girls don’t have jobs. We get married!” She turned with bright eyes to smile at Elijah. Elijah grinned and kissed her on her nose again.
“Well, I have to revise,” I said, turning the page of my book. “The name Ellis means nothing here. I don’t get any favours from the faculty staff.”
“Ohhh… we all love you though,” said Bryony as she reached over, took my hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Even if you’re fashionably poor. Don’t we, Elijah?”
“What’s not to love?” said Elijah as he winked at me. I stiffened as I felt his hand settle on my knee again, unobserved, under the table. I jerked my knee away, and gave him a warning stare that seemed to say, ‘don’t – just don’t’.
“So, any plans after you graduate?” asked Elijah, He drew Bryony close to himself and placed his arm about her shoulders. Bryony melted into his embrace.
“Well, it’s a law degree, Elijah, so I’m going to look for work with a good legal firm. it all depends on how well I do.”
“Hmm. I think Ashlee Ellis could be a fabulous pop star. With the right management you could be the next Britney Spears.”
“What?” It seemed an incredibly stupid thing to even suggest. Outside of a few karaoke parties, I’d never sung in my entire life, and I’d never had any interest in being a pop star. “Where did that come from?”
“I can see it,” declared Elijah, as he gazed at me warmly. “Shaking your little booty on stage in a glittery tunic dress and high heels.”
“I really don’t understand you sometimes, Elijah.”
“I’ll write some bubble-gum pop songs for you to sing, Ashlee. Here’s one I made up last week. It’s called ‘We’re all dancing to a different tune’. I think you’ll love it.” And then he began to sing lyrics to a generic pop song that he’d written in his spare time. It could easily have been some Britney Spears song, but it wasn’t. He sung them in a high falsetto, trying to sound like a girl singing through an auto tune machine, deliberately making silly motions with his hands.
Everybody’s telling me what I should be
Act like this, fit in, follow their beat
But when the lights go down and I hear my heart
It’s playing something wild from the very start
They say slow down, don’t make a scene
But I don’t move unless I feel it in me
If I’m out of step, that’s fine with you
‘Cause I don’t wanna move like they all do
And, ohh baby…
We’re all dancing to a different tune!
Different steps, different point of view
If I’m spinning outta line tonight
It just feels good, yeah it feels all right
“Catchy, yes?” said Elijah with a smile. “How about we work on it together one night?” He winked. Cuddling close to him, Bryony just smiled up at me.
“Hey how about we both be pop singers?” she said, excited. She clapped her hands together.
“That’s not for you, Bree,” said Elijah with a smirk. He glanced back at me knowingly. “It’s for Ashlee. Glitter dress. High heels. Shaking your booty on stage, Ashlee, like you mean it.” He started singing again.
I don’t need permission to shine this way
I change my rhythm like night and day
You say I’m trouble, maybe it’s all true
But I like the sound when I make my own rules
And, ohh baby…
We’re all dancing to a different tune!
Different steps, different point of view
If I’m spinning outta line tonight
It just feels good, yeah it feels all right
“I’ve had enough of this.” I gathered my books and rose from the table.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Ash,” said Elijah. “Sit down, at least until Michael gets here. He has his cousin visiting this weekend.”
“Fliss?” He was referring to Felicity Emery. I had met her a couple of times since I was going out with Michael.
“Yeah, she’s just back from a week in Cannes. Great tan. Tight body.”
“Elijah!” Bryony nudged him with her elbow and gave him an annoyed pout.
“But you’re the only one for me, Bree,” he said, placating her moment of indignity. “Fliss hasn’t got what it takes to be Mrs Bryony Bannon.”
“Ohhh!” Bryony clapped her hands together in excitement. “I really hope that someday…”
I saw Elijah turn a sly gaze at me again as I smoothed down the lines of my neatly pressed and socially acceptable over the knee skirt. And just then of course Michael arrived with his cousin in tow. I sat back down again, for I couldn’t very well leave now that my boyfriend was here.
“Ash,” Michael leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. It was a closed mouth kiss, of course, for we were outside on the lawn of Mount Holyoke college, in full view of other female students. I was always being judged, as was Bryony.
“Hi, Ashlee,” said Felicity Emery as she slid a pair of oversized designer sunglasses from the bridge of her nose. She wore crisp white capri trousers, cut in a beautifully feminine style, just wide enough to move gracefully in, like some 1960s movie star, and she paired the trousers with a sleeveless boat-neck top in a rich navy colour, accessorised with gold jewellery - real gold, thin bangles, a delicate, yet audacious chain at her throat - nothing flashy, which somehow made her seem even more glamorous. Her bag was a small structured thing in tan leather, immaculate, and obviously designer.
And the tan. God, the tan. It set everything off, and would make even the plainest dress look like Riviera chic on her body. She never burned in the sun and never peeled. Felicity Emery just grew more luminous by the day, whenever she sunbathed.
I watched as Felicity pushed her sunglasses up into her hair; hair that was impossibly long, glossy, slightly wind-tangled, with a bright silk scarf knotted carelessly at the crown. The scarf was some elegant print—Hermès, most likely—and she treated it the way other girls treated a ribbon.
“Fliss is staying for a couple of nights,” said Michael, as he sat down beside me. I felt Elijah move slightly away from me now. He no longer tried to touch my knee.
“How was Cannes?” I asked Felicity.
“Hot, loud, a bit brash. There was champagne.” She looked me up and down, at the college approved clothes I wore. “Jesus, Ashlee, you look like you’re attending Catholic school.”
“It’s… different here at Mount Holyoke,” I said. From the corner of my eye I saw that the tall, broad shouldered, stocky figures of Trinny Marston and Victoria Hearst were staring at Felicity, at her ‘just back from a few days of hedonism on the South of France’ fashion style. They didn’t seem to approve much.
“Obviously,” said a bored sounding Felicity Emery. “Michael, have we got anything to drink?” She screwed up her nose at the sight of Bryony’s college approved Coca-Cola bottle.
“We’ll go for lunch in an hour,” said Michael. “There’s a fabulous little bistro just eight miles outside of town. I’ll drive us. The wine list is to practically die for.”
“Sweet,” said Felicity as she kissed her cousin on the cheek. “Oh! Oh, my god, have you heard the rumours about Chelsea?”
“I heard something,” remarked Elijah. “Didn’t she break some family rule? I think she’s grounded. or something?”
“Oh, it’s better than that. Two girls… ran away because of her.” Felicity regarded me for a moment as if she had perhaps said something meant only for the ears of the children of the great American families, but then she relaxed as I didn’t make anything much of it. “They, were, uh, rounded up eventually.” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully while I was here. “Wyandotte was, like, livid. Really annoyed.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Elijah. “They’re sure it was Chelsea?”
“Oh, yes. No doubt at all. Their investigations were… very thorough.”
“Wouldn’t like to be in her designer heels now,” said Michael. “I met Wyandotte Frick once. He doesn’t mince his words.”
“So she was about to be… you know… a bonus consignment…” Felicity glanced at me and smiled before turning back to Elijah. “But a compromise was reached. She’s only going to have to companion Elliot Emery!”
“No!” said Elijah. “How is she taking that?”
“Well, you know Chelsea. The penitent niece in front of Wyandotte, but in private she’ll be spitting feathers. No trip to Cannes for her once she’s Elliot’s companion. He’s so old!”
“Chalk and cheese,” said Michael. “Elliot expects very old fashioned behaviour from a companion. Chelsea’s going to have a hard time. But it’s a good move pairing the Fricks and Emerys. It’s an especially sound move by the Fricks, ever since they lost their seat on the Council. And good for us Emerys, too. The Fricks have always been one of the stronger, no nonsense families. We will gain a lot being allied to them. Long overdue in my opinion. Brings our families closer together.”
“I’m so looking forward to the companionship ceremony,” said Felicity as she absently adjusted her bright silk head scarf. “The look on Chelsea’s face will be priceless as she speaks her vows for a year. I’ll have to send her photos from my next trip to Cannes,” she said, her face betraying the excitement she felt.
“I thought you two were friends,” said Michael.
“Well, yes, we’re friends. Yes, of course we are. But…”
“Women,” laughed Elijah. “They’re their own worst enemies.”
“We’re just ambitious, that’s all,” said Felicity, proudly. “I have plans, you know. In just a few years - just you all wait and see.”
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