Mymothergave me the best gift imaginable – three sensationalsisters. Sisters possess a psychological shorthand; instinctively understanding each other. When one of us is going through a rough time, the other three rally with offers of chicken soup and/or internal organs. If under attack, the wagons circle. Although… wagons? Who am I kidding? Having three formidable sisters on your side is like having a bombproof, flame-retardant armoured vehicle on hand for quick getaways.
Of course, it’s not the same for all sisters. In fact, some sisters have enough chips on their shoulders to open a casino.Olivia de Havillandand her sister Joan Fontaine spent their lives circling each other like Cold War spies. When Fontaine was awarded the Oscar that de Havilland expected to win, it was no-talkies for a decade.
I was lucky enough to be friends with one of the world’smost famous sisters, Jessica Mitford. When her sibling, novelist Nancy, commented that “Sisters are a defence against life’s cruel circumstances,” Jessica retorted, “Sisters are life’s cruel circumstances.” But then again, Jessica, a communist,had to deal with Diana, a fascist, and Unity, who adored Hitler, and Debs, who became a duchess. I suspect it would have been safer to fly an American jet into Iranian airspace than attend a Mitford family gathering.
Thankfully, my sisters and I are not as disparate as the Mitfords. In fact, it’s our contrasting characters that make us stronger. Together, our various fortes combine to make up one pretty formidable person and I know how lucky I am.
But for those who are not lucky enough to have biological sisters, there is, of course, the “sisterhood”, and, in many ways, friends are just as important. My best girlfriends are like Orion’s Belt; always there, lined up alongside each other. Whenever I feel lost and can’t find my place in life, my girlfriends are my bookmark. Loving, loyal girlfriends – and you know who you are – lift you two octaves up on the happiness scale without even realising they’re doing so. On a girls’ night out, I sometimes feel like I’ll have to be hospitalised from hilarity. Laughter effervesces up in us like champagne as we quaff and quip and dance to female torch songs until the wee hours. Nor do we care that our over-exuberant mum manoeuvres, circa 1982, often leave us with a bad case of ARDI (Abba Related Dance Injuries).
Female friendships can be as fulfilling, intense and nourishing as any romance. Even more so. Which is why it’s so painful when they fall apart. A breakup with a best girlfriend shatters your equilibrium. Once that familiar foundation is knocked out from under you, it’s impossible to keep your balance. In fact, I’ve suffered worse heartbreak over the loss of a good girlfriend than a lover.
My first intensely emotional relationship was with a girlfriend. We were inseparable from 13 to 20. I would have taken a bullet for her. And not just a light graze either, but a full-onPeaky Blinders-type machine-gun body strafe. And so when she suddenly, inexplicably dropped me, I cried for months. I think I actually suffered a bit of a mini breakdown. I was savaged by nightmares for years.
Aged 22, I fell out with another close girlfriend after she slept with my boyfriend. The woman I so admired turned out to be a vampire on a day pass. I’d been happily floating about on the love boat, which she’d totallyTitanic-ed. When confronted, she apologised. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”
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“Hate you? Oh no. Not really… sometimes whole seconds elapse where I forget that you destroyed my life.” Her treachery hurt every time I thought about it, like a nerve exposed to air.
In my thirties, a close girlfriend went behind my back to secure a job I’d told her about. The scar tissue of those earlier breakups immediately tore open. The pain rushed back in one big, anguishing blast. There was no way we could stay friends. Her betrayal was like a shadow on the X-ray of my spirit – nagging at my confidence.
All of these experiences have probably gone on to inform my latest novel, in which two sisters, Izzy and Verity, have gone five years of radio silence after one stole the other’s husband. But when their mum goes missing, they have no choice but to join forces to find her. There’s anger, recriminations and much funny, bitchy banter, but eventually Izzy admits, “My husband ran away with my sister – and I miss her.” Verity also confesses, “She’s not just my sister, she’s my best friend. For example, she’ll swear that I’m a natural redhead and I tell everyone that she’s too skinny.”
I felt sure I could never forgive the female friends who betrayed me, not even if we were marooned on an island with no other castaways. But now in my sixties, I find that my anger has receded, like a tide on a beach. All that’s left is the emotional driftwood. I suddenly can’t understand the weight and importance I’ve given to the cargo I’ve carried for so long.
Maybe that is why my novel is about reconciliation. Clearly, there’s so little harmony in the world right now; it’s imperative we try to find unity in our own lives. Especially with our female friends. Why? Well, the world is not getting better for women. A woman born in America now has fewer rights than her grandmother. Abortion bans in America; the erasing of women in Afghanistan. And what about Iran? In our own society, women have to deal with the gender pay gap, upskirting, Andrew Tate, incels, the manosphere, revenge porn, trolling, date-rape, grooming and stealthing. The conviction rate for rape is limbo-low, and domestic violence figures sky-high; one in four women will be sexually assaulted or raped in her lifetime.
But the sisterhood is powerful. The #MeToo movement was a global solidarity movement among women that went on to bring down Harvey Weinstein. Although, of course, only one person is in jail over the Epstein scandal – a woman. Yes, Ghislaine Maxwell was jailed for conspiring with Jeffrey Epstein to sexually abuse minors on Epstein’s private island, but what about the paedophiles who flew there on the Lolita Express? Why aren’t they named and shamed?
We clearly need the sisterhood now more than ever. But there are rules. Women no longer want a man’s seat on the bus; they want his seat on the board. Tell her if she’s being cheated on. Always take her side in a breakup. Be her wingwoman – stick to her like a nylon dress in a heat wave. And most important of all – be loyal. Husbands come and go, but your girlfriends last forever, so we should never let a penis come between us.
There is nothing more life-affirming than a strong female friendship. So raise your fist in feminist solidarity and shout it loud enough to raise the roof, shattering the glass ceiling simultaneously. The sisterhood rules!
Kathy Lette’s latest novel, ‘The Sisterhood Rules’,published by Head of Zeus, is out now
