Time Out

by Emma Murray

  Harriet leans back so I can see her full profile. In the background I can see the sad, beige curtains so typical of a cheap New York hotel room. She has dark circles under her eyes and the corners of her mouth are so severe they seem to be stapled down. I notice that a few dark hairs have appeared on her upper lip, which tells me she has been too frantic to go for a quick waxing or threading. For the first few minutes, she rants about the ‘fucking shit American publishers’ who don’t understand the meaning of ‘fuck off until you can come back with a better deal’. I drum my fingers on my desk impatiently. I have no time for her rants; frankly, it’s a bloody miracle that Anna has stayed asleep this long. Finally, Harriet stops her tirade, and leans in closer to the camera.

  ‘So anyway, I might have something for you,’ she says. ‘You have a young daughter, right?’

  My mouth drops open. I would have been less shocked if she had asked me my favourite sexual position. My thoughts race. How does Harriet even know I have a child? I have never mentioned Anna, subscribing to that don’t-talk-about-your-kids-to-people-who-don’t-appear-to-have-any rule.

  Evidently registering the shock on my face, Harriet shrugs and says, ‘Facebook.’ I nod numbly and stay quiet while she tells me that she has been ‘doing some digging’ and came across my profile photo on Facebook, which features myself and Anna. You know, the standard shot that looks like you’re the happiest mother-daughter combo in the world, even though said daughter has just kicked you in the shins roughly five seconds before the photo was taken. But what does Anna have to do with this new exciting book project?

  ‘Good, because I need someone to write a book about—’

  And then the screen freezes.

  ‘Nooooooooooooooo!’ I shout at the frozen image of my agent’s neck. Why is this happening? It isn’t even a Sunday, when the whole world is online. It’s a shagging Wednesday. OFF PEAK.

  Then something far worse happens: the baby monitor starts to crackle. My ranting and raving has just woken up Anna, who has been napping in the next room.

  I pick up the monitor and start to beg. ‘Please go back to sleep, pleeease.’ I wait and listen for the inevitable, ‘MUUUUUMMMEEEEE’ but nothing comes. Miracle of miracles, I have been granted a brief reprieve. I have two more minutes, tops.

  Just then, the screen unfreezes, and the sound comes back.

  ‘It’s about motherhood,’ Harriet says, through a yawn.

  ‘Oh!’ I say, surprised. This is a bit of a departure from the business books I have been ghosting, but it’s not the worst topic in the world. I’m curious to know who I’ll be working with. Maybe it’s some celeb with shiny blond hair who needs a ghostwriter to help her show off her smug parenting skills, or some child expert, so super-busy he has no time to write his own ground-breaking theories to share with the world. I guess it makes sense for the ghostwriter to be a parent, too.

  Then I listen while Harriet gives me the brief. In fairness, she is always good at giving these kinds of summaries – it’s the only time she really comes to life. I listen while she talks about the way motherhood is treated in the media: everything from the cutie ads promoting babies as the best things to happen to you, from celebs who gush about their offspring to anyone who points a camera in their direction, to people like me, who save only the best bits for social media.

  ‘My point is that people are rarely “real” about motherhood,’ Harriet says. ‘Granted, there are a few celebrities now who have vented a little about the usual sleep deprivation and tantrums, but it’s all done in the name of comedy. Mothers paint this perfect picture on Facebook or Instagram and it’s all bullshit. Parenting has become a competition, a contest to see who is raising their child the best. Mothers tear each other down over social media, and it stops the people who really need support and a shoulder to cry on from reaching out to others for fear of being judged. The publishers want an author who is honest about being a mother, both the positive and the negative. They’ve had enough of all those “My toddler is a sack of shit” and “Why mummy freebases every night before bath time”. They want someone authentic, someone who will put themselves on the line and tell it like it is. Think of it as a warts-and-all account of being a mother, the impact it has, but with real meaning.’

  Harriet turns away from the screen, which gives me the opportunity to think about what she has said. It is a refreshing take on motherhood, and it would be very interesting to explore the topic further with someone else. I just hope that I click with whoever it is.

  Harriet’s back with a silver e-cigarette dangling from her mouth.

  ‘I’m definitely interested,’ I say. ‘Who’s the client?’

  Harriet exhales deeply and makes a face as though disgusted with what has just happened inside her mouth, before saying something that catches me entirely off-guard.

  ‘There is no client, Searcy. This isn’t a ghostwriting project. You are going to write it.’

  And I am so stunned that I barely have time to register Anna slamming into the room, her blond-streaked chestnut hair splayed all over face, racing over to me as fast as her bare feet can take her. She jumps on my lap with a force that makes me wish I hadn’t had that extra slice of quiche for lunch.

  ‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ she demands indignantly, which in her language means: ‘How do you have the nerve to do something without my vital participation?’

  Resigned to my fate, I reluctantly introduce Harriet to Anna.

  ‘Hi, Anna,’ Harriet says flatly, pronouncing it the American way with the ‘A’ as an ‘Aw’ sound, like ‘Aw-na’. This is an affectation that seems to have travelled over here from the US, and, to be honest, it’s annoying.

  ‘It’s Anna,’ my daughter pipes up indignantly, emphasising the flat ‘A’ sound, as in ‘apple’.

  Then Harriet does something I’ve never seen before. The corners of her mouth twitch with what I think might be an effort to smile, but that’s about as far as she gets. I hastily give Anna the computer mouse to keep her quiet, which will give me another ninety seconds, tops. Then, under immense time pressure, I quickly ask Harriet, ‘Why me?’

  ‘We’re looking for someone ordinary; someone without any sort of reputation or history in the public eye… basically an everyday mum who has nothing to lose.’

  I can’t help but bristle at this. Ordinary, boring mum who has made zero impact on the world. It’s hardly the most flattering description, is it?

  ‘Full disclosure: it’s not just you in the running, Searcy,’ she goes on. ‘You’ll be pitching for it against a few other mums.’

  Ha! Well, that’s decided it. Why would I compete for a book that I have absolutely no interest having my name on? Besides, there’s bugger-all money in being an author; everybody knows that. I might be desperate but there’s no way I’m working for nothing. I shake my head, and open my mouth to tell her that it’s really not for me, but a loud yelp comes out instead.

  Anna, in a move that defies all logic, has just slammed the mouse down on my right hand.

  ‘I can’t do it, Harriet,’ I say, hurriedly, trying to keep Anna from banging on my keyboard.

  She sighs and raises her eyes skyward. ‘You know the way I always tell you that you make more money as a ghostwriter than an author?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, in this case, the advance is better than usual.’

  Then she proceeds to tell me the figure, and although it’s not as much as I would earn as a ghostwriter, it’s certainly enough to give me pause.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say weakly.

  ‘Good. I want the pitch in four weeks,’ she says, pointing her e-cigarette at me.

  ‘Say goodbye to Harriet,’ I tell my daughter, far-too-brightly, as she bashes the computer keyboard once again.

  Anna looks up, stares Harriet straight in the eye, and says, ‘You have a moustache.’

  Harriet instantly reddens. I dive for the mouse, and click it violently until the screen goes dark.

&n
bsp; Then I burst into tears. After waiting so long for a new project to come through, I can’t believe this is what I have been handed. I mean, my own daughter has just told my agent she has a moustache. I’m not exactly a ringing endorsement for Mother of the Year. What on earth makes Harriet think that I would be a good choice for a book on motherhood? I have barely been able to hang on to my sanity since I had Anna.

  Anna shuffles off my knee, and looks at me curiously with her huge brown eyes – it’s rare I let her see me cry in case she turns into an emotional basket case in the future (I read that can happen somewhere on the Huffington Post) – and then wanders off into her room, presumably to locate one of her millions of skinny princess dollies to torment (I’ll be blamed for her inevitable eating disorder in later years).

  Not a trace of sympathy or comfort, I think sulkily. After all I do for her, and she doesn’t give a shite if I’m upset.

  And then something happens to redeem my faith in difficult children. Anna emerges from her room with a grubby box of tissues – the one that fell down the side of her bed a good three months ago, which I haven’t been bothered to dig out – crawls back on my knee, plucks a dusty tissue from the box, and wipes the tears from my eyes. It is like that Kleenex ad from the 1980s, where the little boy runs off to get his grandmother a box of tissues when he sees her crying while chopping onions. Anna’s unusual act of kindness makes me cry even more.

  I stand up and throw my arms around her to give her a big cuddle and she presses her head against my stomach. It is a lovely Facebook moment, and for a moment, I’m tempted to take a selfie. Look, everyone! My daughter and I have such a special bond. But just then, I feel a sharp, very painful pinch, just above my tummy button.

  ‘Ouch!’ I exclaim, trying to pull her away.

  Anna doesn’t move. And the pain intensifies.

  ‘Agggghhhh,’ I scream.

  She looks up in fright and bursts into tears.

  Still in pain, I move her away gently, and lift up my top, only to find two perfect tiny teeth-mark on my stomach. For no reason whatsoever, Anna has bitten me – hard.

  We both howl.

  2

  I spend the next twenty minutes consoling Anna for biting me, even though she’s the one who did it, until she sulkily agrees that I can be her mummy again. I explain to her that biting is not allowed, and that it hurts Mummy, and all the usual shite. She goes very still then, looks up at me with her still-watery brown eyes and says in a really thoughtful way, ‘IPad, please.’ I go and fetch it for her, like the good slave I am. ‘And a snack,’ she calls after me. But, of course.

  After Anna is settled, I pick up the phone and call Bea, who I know is working from home today.

  ‘Now that’s enough broccoli, Harry. You’ll get tummy pains,’ she answers in a shrill, cheery voice.

  ‘Relax, it’s only me,’ I say, grinning.

  ‘Thank fuck for that. I thought it was my mum,’ she says, through a yawn.

  Bea’s mother, the famous children’s cookbook author Arianna Wakefield, is a health freak who constantly lectures Bea on childhood obesity and surreptitiously weighs Harry whenever she visits.

  ‘What is Harry really eating?’ I say.

  ‘Pringles,’ Bea replies. ‘Actually, he’s on his second box – the big versions.’

  ‘Good man,’ I say emphatically. ‘Potatoes are good for him!’

  ‘Exactly what I thought,’ she replies.

  ‘How come you have him?’ I say.

  Bea’s fabulous nanny, Maria, works full time and is easily the most patient person I have ever met in my entire life.

  ‘Maria’s at a doctor’s appointment,’ Bea sighs. ‘She’s only been gone an hour and, frankly, it’s an hour too long.’

  There is a loud wail in the background, and then the rattling sound.

  ‘More crisps?’ I say.

  ‘Yep, he’s making his way through a six-pack now. That should keep him quiet for a few minutes.’

  ‘Speaking of so-called unhealthy food, thanks for weighing in on Cheerios-gate earlier,’ I say, with a laugh. ‘That’ll teach the Organics to be so bloody smug.’

  ‘Who knew there could be so much sugar in just a handful of little ‘O’s,’ Bea says in an exaggerated posh accent.

  ‘I guess we’ve been killing our kids all this time,’ I say, with a dramatic sigh.

  ‘Yes, more guilt to add to the overflowing pot.’

  We are quiet for a moment.

  ‘Err, do you ever give Harry Cheerios for breakfast?’ I ask.

  This is the problem with Vale Mums: what these strangers say somehow feeds my insecurities as a mother. For example, I never thought twice about giving Anna Cheerios until the Organics started to ‘educate’ me.

  ‘Are you kidding me, Saoirse? Harry has just eaten his own weight in crisps and had fucking ice cream with a half a tub of sprinkles at five o’clock this morning, what do you think?’

  We roar.

  When things go quiet again, I take a deep breath and tell her about the motherhood book dilemma. When I am finished, she lets out a big explosion of air and says nothing for a minute.

  ‘Personally, I wouldn’t be able to reveal to the world how I really feel about being a mother,’ she says finally. ‘Frankly, I’m shocked that social services haven’t been round already. I almost called them myself today just for Harry’s protection.’

  I stay silent. Forget the terrorist organisations – it’s social services Bea and I fear the most. Especially in those dark moments when trying to get our adorable screaming and kicking children into car seats or buggies. Exerting the odd bit of ‘pressure’ to persuade the apoplectic child to get his or her flailing legs and arms into the straps can cause some paranoia, especially when there are CCTV cameras and human witnesses everywhere.

  Bea is still worried about the time she nudged Harry on the bottom with her foot to make him move faster when running for a flight at Heathrow airport. He had been screaming blue murder to be carried but she couldn’t on account of her dragging her own small suitcase, as well as all his gear: backpack, large stuffed dog, and fucking Trunki, which he had refused to touch the second they arrived at check-in. Ever since the toe-on-bottom situation, she is petrified that the security cameras caught her in the act, and social services will be banging down her door.

  ‘Also, I would be concerned about the response to the book. I mean, what if you wrote about swearing in front of children? We’re all guilty of it when we’re tired and the kids are in evil mode, but I wouldn’t want the judgement for it. Could you handle the amount of negative comments you might receive?’

  ‘Swearing is good for you,’ I say automatically.

  ‘Yes, I know you think so,’ she replies smartly.

  ‘It relieves tension and encourages honesty, which makes you a better and more loyal friend,’ I chant.

  ‘Where did you get that bit about friendship from?’ she asks incredulously.

  ‘Some meme on Facebook,’ I say brightly.

  ‘Fine, you think swearing is healthy, but what about when it comes to Anna? Are you really going to tell your readers what Anna said about Jesus Christ?’

  ‘Saying “Jesus Christ” in front of Anna is simply blasphemy. That’s different from swearing,’ I retort defensively.

  ‘Then why did Anna ask you the other day how could Jesus Christ be both a person and a “grown-up word”?’ she asks, with a laugh.

  Dammit, I’d forgotten I’d told Bea about that one. Snookered. Only one thing for it, I’ll have to go down the self-righteous road.

  ‘I stand by my belief that swearing is normal, healthy and human, but in any case, I’m not going to mention it in the book. Swearing is out of bounds.’

  ‘See? You’re doing it already. Censoring the human side of parenthood. Aren’t you supposed to be the one who says the unsayable? Isn’t the book supposed to bring empathy and comfort to the masses of mothers out there who think they are constantly doing a shit job?’
she says, warming to the theme. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be giving two fingers to the smug Facebook mums who only ever post happy-clappy family photos and judge other mums for being less than?’

  All good points, and I am cross with her for making them.

  ‘Besides, you finally get to have your own name on a book. Perhaps it’s time you came out of hiding,’ she says.

  I know she’s right, but why does it have to be this book? The thought of putting down in black and white the struggles I’ve endured since Anna came along has me terrified.

  ‘It means putting myself out there,’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘Yes, it does, but you can handle it, Saoirse,’ she says, through a sudden crunching sound.

  ‘Are you eating crisps?’ I ask her.

  ‘Are you joking? Do you think I could have wrestled them off Harry? No, I’m eating the carrots the little fucker refused to eat for his lunch earlier,’ she says, taking another bite.

  At that point, Harry starts screaming in a way that is designed to end all conversations. ‘Right, I’d better head off and deal with Jurassic,’ Bea said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Jurassic’ is her nickname for him. When he kicks off, his wails sound exactly like the tyrannosaurus from Jurassic Park.

  Before she signs off, she says in her best commanding voice, ‘Saoirse? I think you should go for it. Write the pitch.’

  I hang up, feeling a bit better. I’m not convinced, but maybe I should give it more thought. Suddenly, I feel a rush of love for Bea, and I shudder when I think back to being a new mum and where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for her.

  3

  London, Four Years Ago

  I first met Bea at a local antenatal group a month after David and I got married. Initially I had no intention of joining this type of group. I just didn’t feel any real need to ‘connect’ with other heavily pregnant women. I had enough friends, thank you very much. Oddly enough, it was David who encouraged me to go. He reasoned that since I had moved to a part of London where I didn’t really know anybody, and as I worked from home, I really should make an effort to make friends in the area.