He looked like a shell of the man she’d lived with, married, raised kids with, divorced. He looked like a ghost.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming,’ he said, after a long time of saying nothing. ‘I just can’t believe that after everything, I thought I was the person she wouldn’t throw under the bus.’
‘Oh, shush,’ said Abi, knocking him gently with her knee. ‘What’s so special about you?’
‘Are you coming home with us?’ Grace asked Adrian, who now looked as if he had just woken up from a very long sleep, groggy and disoriented. ‘Abi and I think the girls would like that.’
‘We’ve got a spare room,’ Abi said. ‘Zoe’s in the shed, but there’s still space for another one. The more the fucking merrier, really.’
‘Yes,’ Adrian said. ‘Yes, I’d like that. While I work out—’
‘What’s next, I know,’ Abi said. ‘The boys need their dad.’
• • •
Five minutes away, Elle was walking across the Pyrmont Bridge. Her gown was whipping around her in the cold wind. The water was black underneath her. She was crying.
And she was typing into her phone.
You won’t be seeing me for a while, SMs. It’s time for me to step away.
You’re going to be hearing a lot of stories about me in the next little while. Some of them will be true. Some of them won’t. But never forget, SMs, bitter people will try to hold you back. Hold you down and keep you small. It doesn’t matter where you come from, online you can be absolutely anyone. You can be as big as you want. You can be free of all that’s weighing you down. You can get revenge on the people who’ve tried to stop you. Whatever you do, SMs, be bold.
When you see me again, I will have evolved past these petty haters once more. There is no way they will beat me. Kiss my boys for me. I’ll be back.
No excuses.
Elle hit publish. And kept on walking.
Acknowledgements
This book would have stayed lodged in my head if it weren’t for two women. One of them is my immensely talented colleague and friend Monique Bowley. Over cheap noodles in an uninspiring food court, I told her that I thought a story behind the women telling stories could be spun into something interesting. She told me to stop talking and to go home and write a synopsis. I did, because Monique is six-foot-two and scary when she’s excited. Lucy Ormonde, who I spent almost three years working alongside and for whom I have enormous respect, was the one who convinced me it was more than an idea, but maybe a book that someone might want to publish and other people might want to read. To Lucy and Monz, the people who say women don’t support other women just haven’t met you yet.
Then there’s my boss, Mia Freedman, who has been an extraordinary cheerleader for me during this process. These are cheesy words for a woman who loves words, but Mia inspires me—and many others—to be better, to push harder, to back myself. I hear her words in my head whenever I know I’m selling myself short.
The tribe of girlfriends who listened to my ideas, entertained my children, read drafts and told me straight all deserve thanks: Penny Kaleta (another constant inspiration), Karen Graham, Miranda Herron, Angie McMenamin, Sally Godfrey, Mel Ware, Sam Marshall and Rebecca Rodwell. There’s a man in there, my friend Mark Brandon, who told me to stop worrying about what others thought and just enjoy writing something people will enjoy reading. It’s unlikely Mark remembers saying that, but he did.
To wise advisors: Jackie Lunn, Andrew Daddo, Caroline Overington, Rebecca Sparrow. To Jamila Rizvi who schooled me on how it feels to be at the centre of a social media storm and Elissa Ratliff who taught me the mysterious ways of small-town life.
To the clever and generous Mamamia team who allowed me the space to write this: Kylie Rogers, Bec Jacobs, Gemma Garkut, Laura Brodnik, Briony Benjamin and again, Monique—all of their work lives were made a little bit harder in the process. Thank you.
Thank you to Claire Kingston, my publisher at Allen & Unwin, who understood this book immediately. And to Kate Goldsworthy, who edited it, and was the first person who’d never met me to read it. Thank you for your enthusiasm, and for your deep hatred of Elle. I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.
And to my family. My parents Jeff and Judith Wainwright travelled across the world and took on extra grandparent duties so I could spend last Summer writing. I don’t tell them often enough how jammy I am to always have their support at my back. Same for my brother Tom, his partner Emilie and their kids Lila, Louie, Poppy and Henry. I can feel them willing us on all the way from Manchester. And to my beloved Lindsay Frankel, the funniest person on the planet and the one I’ve been making up stories with since we were 11.
And so to my small people, Matilda and Billy. They will never read this book because it has lots of rude words in it, so they’ll just have to trust me when I tell them that it was worth all those afternoons I couldn’t play with them, pick them up from somewhere or, you know, feed them. Lucky for M&B, there’s Brent McKean, who is every inch the capable parent. Without Brent, nothing works. At home, in my head or in our lives. I love you.
And lastly to the parents who do share their lives online: It’s a gift. There was a time when mothers had to shut up and smile. Now, telling the stories that allow other women to feel just a little more normal, more connected and understood is no small thing. ‘Mummy bloggers’ or not, the lives of countless women around the world are little less isolating because of you.
Thank you.
Holly Wainwright
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