Tequila Americano

23. revelation

Ingrid turned left into Lisette's photography corner. Polaroid displays were interspersed with glossy photographs and screens playing slideshows on a loop.

Our female love series focuses on love of all kinds between women – mothers and daughters, sisters, friends, lovers, spouses, colleagues... all life starts with the woman who bore it...

Ingrid paused to watch a film projected on the junction between two walls. It featured fragments of homevideos shot at the house they'd used to share as students in London – from pillow fights and all-nighters, to study sessions and movie marathons... Ingrid shook her head slightly as she moved along.

So as an homage to all our heroines out there, we've put together photographs, paintings, sketches and clips to show you, to make you wonder – to fight against societal expectations and absurd double-standards imposed on womankind. Just think about it...

A few paces away, more polaroids hung from clotheslines, fixed by pegs. Ingrid remembered that Rose had bought Liz a polaroid camera for her birthday once. She recognised her own side-profile in one of the pictures, her face mashed into some boy's.

If a man – single – sleeps around a lot, he's something of a hero. If a woman does it, she's a slut. If a married man has an affair, the woman he's in an extra-marital relationship with is his mistress. What does that make him?...

Further down, Ingrid peered at a polaroid selfie, shot with a camera flipped round, heads sliced off but mouths grinning, back when the word 'selfie' hadn't even been coined yet.

Or if, say, a woman is opinionated and fights for what she believes in, she's stubborn and hysterical. A similar man would be smart and brave. If she doesn't give a shit, then she's a mean bitch. He's tough and strong...

Ingrid came to a prolonged halt in front of a wedding portrait of the bridesmaids. She had Agata and Sienna on each side of her, with Freddie besides Agata. The women were all barefoot and laughing, their dresses ruffled mid-motion, eyes scrunched shut as sparks rained above them.

Ingrid had her arms around the shoulders of the two friends framing her. Sienna's only visible hand had its fingers interwoven with Ingrid's. At the other end of the row, Freddie held up a foaming champagne bottle. Agata's arms wrapped around her friends' lower backs, a cocktail glass dangling from one hand.

"This is one of my favourites," Michelle remarked, startling Ingrid – who hadn't noticed the company. "You all look so fucking happy."

"Yeah..." Ingrid's sparkling eyes did not leave the large glossy print of the photograph. "We must have been. I mean," she pointed to the bottle with the tip of her cane, "there's champagne."

Michelle chuckled. "Right. How can you not be happy when champagne's involved?"

"That's what I'm talking about." She finally turned to face the older woman and they clinked their complimentary glasses of prosecco. It was Ingrid's third – or fourth.

"I must admit," Michelle said, "I'm impressed. I never imagined this would be so successful."

"Honestly, neither did I. I'm really glad, though. The girls deserve it."

They started forward together, casting cursory glances at the exhibits they walked past.

"They do, indeed. I've purchased a few prints for myself."

"Really? Which ones?"

"Oh, just some flowers and..." A sheepish smile. "There's a really nice painting of Sienna and my niece."

"I want to buy some, too," Ingrid replied. "I'll have to come back when there aren't so many people around, though. Study the art in silence."

Michelle stopped in front of an oversized sketch of someone who looked like Ingrid in the arms of a male figure. The pencil strokes were all shades of black and grey on a pristine white background and drawn haphazardly on purpose.