Why we have to teach our daughters to be BAD GIRLS

AGED 17, I am deeply in love. But the object of my affections, David, hardly listens to me. When I talk, he switches off. He likes it when I listen so, obediently, that’s what I do.

He tells me patronisingly all about books I know well. I nod. When he phones, I am always available. He also talks a great deal about his ex-girlfriend, Alice.

Then one day we are in bed together when Alice calls. I pick up the phone and, instead of instantly putting it down, I pass it straight to him, because my mother taught me never to lie.

His face lights up and he dresses hurriedly. ‘Sorry. I have to go,’ he says, as I nod and smile.

I’m so angry, I don’t sleep that night. I toss and turn, punching my pillow. Why didn’t my dear mother teach me to be bad like Alice? Why was I so good, so honest, so predictable?

Good girls get to heaven, goes the saying, but bad girls get everywhere.

And, like so many of us, even when subjected to such a humiliation, I was too innately reserved, too ladylike to make a scene. David won.

Indeed, men regularly win. And that’s because we women so often operate with our hands tied by the ropes of propriety, compassion, unselfishness and politeness. Great for looking after children and being a lovable human being and partner, but not so good when trying to adapt to a world in which we must compete with men on their own ground.

Today, we need to be like men: singleminded, assertive, risk-taking — even selfish when necessary. And, vitally, we shouldn’t apologise.

We need to ask for the pay rise we deserve, even if our boss considers us ‘bad’ to do so. We need to apply for a job we may not get, even though that makes us look too confident (heaven forbid!).

Because, as I’ve learned the hard way, good, predictable, fearful behaviour is for wimps. Instead, we all need to embrace our inner bad girl.

Don’t forget, it’s often the bad girl who gets the guy, the unpredictable one who is intoxicatingly unpredictable with just a hint of darkness — from Angelina Jolie with her vials of blood around her neck, to poet Sylvia Plath who famously bit lover Ted Hughes’s cheek when they first met.

BUT

how do we start? How can we be bad — and what do we lose by being so? It’s nothing short of a battle. From our earliest days, our mothers have told us how to be good. So engrained does virtue become after such indoctrination, it’s hard to shake off.

That’s despite most of us dreaming of being a bit naughty — even imagining an alternative reality in our heads where our bad girl alter ego comes up with the putdowns we only think of much later, or woos a man with a single raised eyebrow.

I’ve even created a bad girl alter ego — Tessa. In difficult moments, I wonder what Tessa would do. I wrote my novel, Fire Child, about her.

She can make any man love her with a smile. Nobody would leave Tessa in bed and go to another girl.

In a way, I should thank David for his behaviour. Because it was on the night he left me that I first thought up Tessa — and resolved to try to be like her.

So, the next night, I went to a rock concert and didn’t come back until 5am. My father was furious, but I didn’t care. This was more like it. I was so tired of being good.

From then on, I deliberately — but with difficulty — tried to flout rules and expectations. And, despite the effort required, it worked. Every time I pushed a limit, I felt more alive.

I read books with wilful girls centre stage to help me learn the art of being bad. Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With The Wind was an early favourite.

The thrill I felt when an enemy Yankee stumbles into Scarlett’s beloved home and threatens her, only for her to shoot him before he even draws his pistol — well, that was who I wanted to be like.

So inspired, I returned a week late to school from France because I’d met a professional gambler in Montmartre. The headteacher was furious, but my French had improved no end.

And when I saw David in the street, my heart stopped for a second, but I walked straight past. He called my name, but I pretended I hadn’t heard.

Finally, I felt whole. I wasn’t totally bad — but I was no longer just good. I was able to move between my two selves. It’s a model I’ve used through my whole adult life, to great success. When I’ve needed to be bad, I have — sometimes with relish.

A developer wanted to build at the bottom of my flat’s garden. For the planning meeting, I dressed up in the cutest, most lovable and innocent skirt and blouse to defend our interests and attack the developer savagely, but with a sweet smile.

I opened my eyes wide with distress. The planners were completely won over by m e and the developer lost millions. He hadn’t calculated on defending himself against a nice girl turned oh-so bad. Score.

THOUGH

I should point out bad doesn’t mean being unkind and loud-mouthed. The bad I am talking about is strong and deliberate, thoughtful and powerful. It’s not out of control. Nor is it gratuitously shocking or spiteful.

Another common weapon of choice for bad girls is beauty. Good looks have allowed many famous bad girls to make their way.

Model and actress Emma Hamilton, daughter of a blacksmith, became the consort of naval hero Lord Nelson while married to Sir William Hamilton.

She was no sweet innocent. When Lord Elgin and his wife Mary visited the trio in Naples in 1799, Emma advised Mary not to dress up for a ball with the Queen of Naples.

When Mary arrived, simply dressed, she saw to her fury that Emma was resplendent in jewels and finery. In her letters home, an angry Mary recounts how she returned to her house to change.

You don’t get the power and the glory Emma Hamilton gained by being self-effacing and sweetly helping other females to shine.

Admittedly, being bad and risk-taking is a high-wire act, as Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin and Marilyn Monroe have all found out.

Being good might be boring, but it seldom kills you. Yet I think being bad is worth the risk.

And God knows we need unsuitable role models. Would you want your daughter to be tough or weak? Of course, you’d choose tough (I frequently advised my daughter not to be too nice). You shoot the Yankee who will otherwise shoot you.

So, let’s hear it for the alter ego. She’s your guardian angel, as well as your temptress. She takes you to all the best parties. She makes you cross the line. She will save your life if necessary. She makes you unpredictable. She makes you break hearts. She gets you into trouble, but not too much.

Most of all, she’s on your side. Keep her safe.