The Mummy Bloggers

by Holly Wainwright

  It also made her feel extraordinarily powerful, even as she knew that Elle’s fans would retaliate.

  By the time Abi called off her swarm, The Stylish Mumma crowd had flooded her socials with thousands of variations on ‘ugly/old/dangerous cunt’. They’d even pulled off a hack of their own, translating Abi’s site into Mandarin for twenty-four hours. Clever, Mummas, clever.

  Abi thought it was fun. But it irritated the Blog-ahh people no end. She received a stern call from their PR spokeswoman, who explained that they couldn’t be seen to reward bullying behaviour. The woman assured Abi that Elle had received a call too. It was too late to disqualify two out of three contestants, but any further infractions would affect how the awards were judged.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Abi told the woman. ‘Of course, I can’t be held responsible for the crazy actions of some of my followers, but I will certainly be more cautious about anything that could be seen as encouraging them into negative behaviour.’

  She hung up smiling.

  The ensuing publicity calmed the storm about the Shannon Smart comments, and Abi’s Facebook following got a healthy boost from the curious and the newly converted.

  This week’s podcast was an interview with a fruitarian mother of four: she fed her whole family only on fruit that fell from trees of its own free will. The podcast was going gangbusters—and since Abi hadn’t suggested that her listeners follow the diet, so far the ‘You crazy bitch’ comments were aimed at the guest, not the host, which was a refreshing change.

  She was back on track.

  • • •

  The persistent blackspot had been Adrian. He was still refusing to return her calls or messages, and was still pushing Alex and Arden away. She’d caught sight of him on a Facetime chat with Alex, and he looked like shit.

  Arden, in particular, was acting out. A few days ago she had disappeared, and after several hours of frantic searching and calling, Abi had found her trying to hitch a ride on the highway. She’d said she wanted to go to Melbourne, but her dad wouldn’t let her. ‘I’m going anyway! Fuck what he wants, what about what I want?’ she’d yelled at her mother, all flashing eyes and adolescent fury. Then she’d collapsed onto Abi, crying, and Abi had driven her home via a highly against-the-rules ice-cream shop.

  That had worked out okay. Next time, who knew?

  Abi had been composing an email to Adrian that night about how they needed to come together—as a ‘modern family’—to deal with this, when a message popped into her box from a name she didn’t recognise but with a subject line that made her click instantly.

  I am Elle Campbell’s sister. And I want to help you.

  Abi liked that the email was short and to the point:

  Abi—You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But there’s someone in common in our lives—Elle Campbell.

  I know you are up against Elle in the Blog-ahh awards. Right now, she is certainly going to win. I know how to help you compete. I know all the workings of Elle’s site and all her social media tricks. I am very happy to come and help you elevate your site to a place where you could make sure Elle doesn’t get that award.

  Why would I do that? Because my sister is not who she says she is. Things in her home are not how they seem. And she has just done something so despicable to my family that I don’t think I can ever forgive her.

  Are you interested in meeting me?

  Zoe Wright

  Abi’s response was instant:

  Are you kidding me? YES.

  Abi hadn’t told Grace about the email. She hadn’t told Grace about the meeting. But earlier today, Abi had said that she had a sit-down with a potential tourism advertiser before jumping in the people mover to drive the hour or so to Bendigo.

  This is like a scene from a spy film, Abi had thought as she walked into the agreed coffee shop at the agreed time. She was thrilled by the very idea. And then it occurred to her: given what had happened to Leisel Adams, should she be worried? Oh well, too late.

  The cafe was busy. Friends with prams catching up for coffee, a few office workers finishing up their salads. Abi walked through to the courtyard at the back, and instantly recognised Zoe Wright. The young woman looked like a ‘before’ photo of Elle. Before the gym obsession, before the boob job. Before the botox. Lovely, and very young.

  And from the way she was sucking down that cigarette, she seemed really, really pissed off.

  She looked up at Abi. ‘Hope you don’t mind sitting outside,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all.’ Abi smiled. She sat down. ‘So, I was surprised to hear from you. You sounded upset in your email. Are you… alright?’

  ‘I’d like some cake,’ said Zoe, in the tone of a sulking teen. ‘Something really gooey and sweet. It might make me feel better about my shitty family.’

  ‘Well, sugar is a good defence against shitty families,’ Abi said, feeling maternal towards this young woman. ‘That and wine, and cheese, and girlfriends.’

  ‘Cake will do me.’ Zoe stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Elle says comfort-eating is really self-harm.’

  ‘Fuck that.’ Abi grabbed the menu. ‘Most of the time I have to live on kale and activated nuts and sprouted seeds—and I can tell you, it really does nothing for my mood.’

  Zoe looked like she was trying not to laugh. ‘What the fuck is an activated nut?’

  ‘Oh, to be so innocent.’ Abi did laugh. ‘Let’s both have cake. And hot chocolate.’

  And that was how two women with a common enemy came to be sitting in a cafe in rural Victoria hatching a plan over giant slices of gateaux.

  Abi found out that Zoe knew about her and Elle’s shared history.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Zoe. ‘I lived with them for a while, after Freddie was born. I met your girls. Nice girls.’

  ‘Ha! Nice? You mustn’t have known them very well!’

  ‘They didn’t stay. It was before they moved to the big house. Elle always said there wasn’t enough room for the girls there. But they came by a couple of times.’

  Abi tried to quash her rising fury at the idea of there not being room for her daughters in their own father’s house. Breathe, Abi, she told herself. Not the time.

  ‘Talk to me about what you want to do, Zoe,’ she said instead.

  ‘I want you to give me a job on your blog,’ Zoe said, almost too quickly. ‘Just for a little while. I had to leave Melbourne because Elle even stuffed up my relationship with my family there. And then I had a good job in Mildura, but I had to quit to go home and see my dad, who’s… Well, it’s a long story. I don’t want to go there now. At the moment, there are two things I need to do: earn a bit of money and piss off my sister.’

  Zoe told Abi how she never thought she’d have a proper job, coming from where she did, and how the whole drama with Elle had ended up boosting her confidence—she’d done an online course in social media marketing, moved around a bit, got work here and there. ‘I’m good at it. I can see some really simple things we can do to push up The Green Diva’s engagement score. Have you ever had a professional consult with you about that?’

  No, Abi hadn’t. She was impressed by the resilience of this young woman who was bouncing from place to place alone, trying to make a life.

  Hearing Zoe talk about her family background in such a matter-of-fact way also changed how she saw Elle. It took guts to get anywhere on your own, Abi had to admit that. She thought about her own middle-class childhood, about how hard she’d tried to shake off her family’s weighty expectations. It would be far worse, she knew, for no one to expect anything from you at all.

  • • •

  Abi and Grace were driving back to the farm from parent–teacher night, which had been blessedly short, as Abi predicted. Now it was dark and getting cold. Otto was in the back seat with a rug on his skinny knees. Grace was trying to talk to him, her eyes on the rear-view mirror. ‘So what did you think about what Mrs Patel says. How did it make you feel?’

  Otto shrugged. ‘I like her, what
ever.’

  ‘You like being taught by her, better than by Mummy?’

  ‘Grace! Shut up.’ Abi laughed. ‘You can’t ask that. Seriously, babe, who’s crazy now?’

  Otto laughed, too. ‘Muuuum. It’s not like that. It’s school. I like being with the other kids. I like not being at home all the time. Okay?’

  ‘Okay?’ Abi mimicked, from the driver’s seat.

  They pulled up the long driveway to the farm. ‘Speaking of people being at home… there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Abi said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I need some help, with the blog.’

  ‘Really? Okay. I can let Arden do it as part of her tech courses.’

  ‘No, babe, I mean, professional help.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’

  They parked outside the farmhouse. Otto flung his door open and ran to the house, where the lights were on and teen-punk was pounding out of the windows.

  Grace looked at Abi. ‘What?’

  ‘So, I met this girl…’

  ‘This gets stranger and stranger,’ said Grace. ‘I can tell you’re plotting something. Just hit me with it.’

  ‘Okay.’ So Abi told Grace about Zoe. About how she was Elle’s younger sister. About how they were estranged. About how Zoe wanted to help Abi win the Blog-ahhs, and how Abi knew she could help make that happen.

  ‘Zoe can move into the barn for a few weeks. Help me set a lot of stuff up. She would move on after the awards.’

  Grace just stared at her. ‘Abi, do you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are obsessing over Elle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to settle a score with her.’ Grace’s famous composure was slipping. ‘You and Adrian have been apart for five years, Abi. And this is our family. Is there something I’m missing here? Are you not happy?’

  Abi grabbed Grace’s hand. ‘Grace. Seriously, I’m so fucking happy. You need to believe me that this has nothing to do with that. NOTHING. It’s more complicated than that and anyway…’

  ‘Anyway, what?’

  Abi had planned not to, but she would have to tell Grace about the last part of the conversation she’d had with Zoe that afternoon. The bit that really changed everything.

  Abi had been telling Zoe about her frustration at how Elle was blocking her and the girls from helping Adrian deal with his cancer. How it was the thing keeping her up at night—the thing fuelling her current fury at Elle.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m fucking overreacting about it. It’s just… He’s their father. And he’s really sick, and I just can’t seem to get him to connect with them about it.’

  Zoe’s eyes dropped to her lap, where her fingers were fiddling with her small white lighter. She looked a little broken. And then she said, ‘Look, I wasn’t going to say this, because false hope or whatever…’ She reached for a cigarette.

  ‘What? You can’t just say that and stop, Zoe!’

  ‘I don’t think your husband has cancer.’

  Zoe looked up as she said it, looked straight at Abi. And as soon as Abi heard those words, she registered the truth in them.

  It was like she’d been scratching a hundred tiny mosquito bites, and suddenly they all stopped itching at once. A calm came. And then a smile. ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘No. But I think we could, with a bit of work. Don’t you?’

  Back in the car, in the dark driveway of the farm, lit only by the old house’s windows, Grace’s mouth was hanging open.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ was all she could say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LEISEL

  ‘I know you’re shitty with me, Leisel, but this is going to be important television. Really important.’

  It was Claire—Leisel’s old journo friend had caught wind of her plan and wanted a part of it.

  ‘I know that, Claire, and that’s why I can’t do it on After Breakfast!’

  ‘I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that to an old mate, Leese.’

  ‘Come on, Claire, you know exactly what I mean. I live and learn.’

  ‘Okay, what if I come with you to wherever you take it, as a guest producer? If you’re shopping this kind of story, you can probably have whoever you want.’

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you get so desperate?’

  Leisel already knew the answer. Five years ago, as a single woman approaching forty in the ‘man’s world’ of TV, Claire had begun to question what the next twenty years were going to look like. She’d decided she needed to get serious, to ‘play the game’, but found herself cock-blocked at every turn by the old school tie.

  ‘That’s just fucking rude, Leese. I’m not desperate for anything other than a promotion and a favour from an old friend.’

  ‘You’ve had your favour, Claire. Remember Darryl?’

  Leisel’s plan had nothing to do with TV ratings. She was motivated by two things: to do something good in the world, and to win the Blog-ahhs.

  She was going to sit down with Kristen Worther, the troll who’d attacked her. And she was going to stream the whole thing live. If you wanted to watch it, you’d have to come to The Working Mum.

  • • •

  Mark, of course, thought that this time she really had lost her fucking mind.

  ‘You have lost your fucking mind,’ he’d said, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his lips.

  Leisel had made the wise decision of arranging the holy grail for busy parents—Date Night—and using the occasion to raise a big, ugly bugbear from its fitful slumber.

  Uncle Dan was babysitting the kids, and she’d booked a restaurant that wasn’t so flash it made Mark feel uncomfortable but more special than family dinner at the local bowlo. Food was served on slates. Wine—sparkling water for Mark—came as an inch in the bottom of a giant balloon-glass. Date Night was on.

  And then, somewhere between the starter and the main, Leisel had decided to tell Mark about her plan.

  ‘I have spoken to the police and the social workers. They think she’ll go for it. It’s a public service—it will help her at sentencing.’

  ‘As I said, you have lost your fucking mind.’

  ‘We won’t talk about the specifics of the crime. She’s going to discuss trolling. Why people do it. How it makes them feel. This is a big issue right now, Mark. It could help a lot of people.’

  He took a gulp of his fizzy water, glanced around the room and ran his hands through his thick hair, making it stand on end. ‘Is that why you’re doing it, Lee? To help people?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Look, online bullying is an issue that everyone has to grapple with. It’s going to be huge for our kids—’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘What’s bullshit?’

  ‘You’re talking bullshit. And it’s my job to call you on your bullshit. It’s what we’ve always agreed to, right?’

  Hissing at each other over uneaten octopus was not how Leisel had pictured Date Night. But that was exactly where it was going.

  ‘Great, Mark, that’s just great. So why don’t you tell me why I’m doing it, since you know so much?’

  ‘You are doing it to win that award.’

  Leisel sat back in her chair. It was true. Partly true. ‘What if that’s a product of doing something worthwhile? Why is that so awful?’

  ‘Because you are chasing something, Lee. This blog—talking about your family, unpicking all the shitty little bits of your life—it’s become an addiction for you.’

  ‘Well, you’d know.’ Leisel didn’t usually fight mean. She felt mean, though. She felt cornered.

  Mark winced. But he kept going. ‘How do you think it makes your family feel to know that instead of actually dealing with what’s hurting you, you’d rather be slagging us off on the internet?’ ‘That is not fair, Mark. That is not fair.’ Leisel leant across the table. Her and Mark’s faces were inches apart now. ‘But if we’re talking about fe
elings, how do you think it feels to be the one who has to earn all the money? How do you think it feels to be the one who’s carrying everything all the time? I want our lives to change, Mark. I want to be able to breathe. And I think there’s a chance of that happening now. It’s been a shitty time for all of us, I know, but this is the silver lining. We have a chance to make a success out of this.’

  ‘And what does that look like for you? I seriously want to know. Because all I see here is downside—more attention means more harassment means more attention… I don’t get it.’

  ‘Of course you don’t get it. You don’t get it because you don’t have any ambition. You would be happy with us doing exactly what we’re doing for ever.’

  ‘What’s so wrong with that? My ambition is to have a happy family. What the fuck’s wrong with that?’

  People were looking.

  ‘I want more!’ Leisel said. ‘It’s okay to want more, Mark. I want to stop working so hard all the time. I want to not always be running, being behind, feeling guilty. You have one job, and it’s the kids, but I feel like I have a million jobs. And it’s exhausting. What you don’t understand about the women on my blog is that they all feel like that too. And the support we give each other is something precious. If I can make my life more about that, and less about being in an office ten hours a day working for a teenager, then that’s what I want.’

  ‘But, Lee.’ Mark seemed to have stopped being angry. He took her hand across the table. She took a mouthful of octopus. ‘You could do that in other ways. Talk to someone. Get another job. The cost of this is too high. Look at what happened. Look at what came into our home.’

  ‘Don’t you dare try to blame me for that, Mark. Don’t you dare. I didn’t provoke that woman. She’s ill.’

  ‘Well then, if she’s ill, getting her in front of a camera to talk about it seems like a really, really dumb idea.’