So Lucky

by Dawn O'Porter

  I was really enjoying that dream. I put down my phone and slip my hand between my legs. As if he knows what I’m thinking, my baby gurgles and pulls back from my nipple, giving me a judgemental side eye. He’s probably right.

  I swap him onto the other boob and stroke his head. It’s a miracle I have him at all, and I am so grateful. Not because there is anything wrong with me. I’m thirty-six and apparently a ‘geriatric’ when it comes to making babies, but the doctor said I have the ovaries of a twenty-year-old. Michael is perfectly fertile too, despite his age. Men are so lucky in that way; they can be fathers once they’re well past their ‘peak’. We have to do it at the most inconvenient time in our lives, when our careers should really be all we have to think about. He took all of the tests as a distraction from the act of actually having sex. It was awkward in the appointments with the fertility doctor; he’d say he’d do what he could to get to the bottom of why I wasn’t getting pregnant, and all the while I wanted to scream the reason directly into my husband’s face.

  ‘IT’S BECAUSE YOU WON’T HAVE SEX WITH ME. YOU NEVER FUCK ME. THAT IS WHY I AM NOT PREGNANT.’ I felt like if I ever got pregnant from the once a month I managed to get him to come inside me, it would be a miracle. But I did. And then I was. And now I have my baby, so at least I got that out of this marriage.

  I love my husband, I do. He is kind and fun in pretty much every area of life other than sex. His mother is the battle-axe of all battle-axes and their relationship is weird and loaded with sexual context. They, of course, don’t see it, but I do. Is it really normal for a grown man to pop over to his mum’s house for a foot massage? Is it? No, it isn’t. Is it also normal to call your mother every morning, or to ask her to go to dentist appointments with you because you are scared? I want my little boy to know that I am always there for him, but I also want him to have healthy sexual relationships with other women, and not insist that I come on all their family holidays. I will also do my best not to make his future lovers feel like their relationship with him is second place. As long as he always comes home for Christmas.

  Michael is always ‘tired’. He says it’s his age.

  We had a lot of sex when we got together, which was fun while it was happening but often ended strangely. He’d say things like, ‘It’s natural for a man to want to flee after sex.’ Or, ‘You didn’t come, I don’t mind if you finish yourself off.’ Funnily enough I rarely did – a comment like that can send a clitoris sailing to the ground like an unopened parachute. Thud.

  It wasn’t that he was cruel, just weird about sex. But we did it lots, so the romantic in me always presumed that all we needed was time. Practice. I put his issues down to the lack of wedlock at the time. He’s kind of traditional and maybe marriage meant a lot to him? I presumed he’d be in his element from our wedding night on. But no, it was as if he had sullied his bride. When we got back to our suite he said, ‘It’s a shame you’ve slept with people before.’ I walked out of the room, took off the sexy underwear I had on under my dress, changed it for my normal stuff and went back in to discover him asleep, or pretending to be asleep to get out of having sex with his whore of a wife.

  There were always subtle undertones of blame. And as his sex drive has dwindled, his challenged machismo likes to make me feel that it’s all my fault. A few weeks ago he said sex was off the cards because my breath smelt. I cleaned my teeth. To which he responded with, ‘Mint makes me nauseous. You always get the toothpaste I don’t like.’ The dentist told me two days later that there were no signs of halitosis or anything dying underneath my tongue. But even still, I covered my mouth whenever I spoke to him for about a week after that.

  Even during childbirth my body seemed to bother him. He stayed up by my head and kept giving me a really annoying head massage. The midwife asked him if he wanted to watch as Tommy was crowning, and Michael said, ‘God no, that’s not something I need to see.’ I remember thinking, ‘We just created a miracle and you’re too disgusted by my body to watch it enter the world?’ He also insisted that I wore a t-shirt while I was in labour. I hadn’t packed one, so he gave me the one he had under his shirt. It was so tight on my big belly and felt uncomfortable. Also there was a strong smell of BO that made me feel sick. When I tried to take it off he said, ‘You’ll regret that. I was going to take a photo.’

  My nudity makes him uncomfortable.

  It’s not like my new stretch marks and flabby belly are going to help with that, is it?

  ‘You must have as much sex as you want,’ I say to Tommy, as he suckles. ‘Just make sure he or she is up for it, use a condom, and always say thank you.’ He looks up at me, and I think he understands.

  ‘Michael,’ I call, getting out of bed and laying the baby down.

  ‘You done?’ he asks, peeping his head around the door.

  ‘Yes, and I better get to work.’

  He picks the baby up right away and burps him on his shoulder.

  ‘Cool,’ he says, leaving the room. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed.’

  God forbid he sees me naked.

  Ruby

  Arriving at the nursery, Bonnie yells at me like I’m a wild bear she needs to scare away. I unstrap her from the hell of her pushchair. Almost as soon as she is free, she runs inside with a huge smile on her face, and straight over to a teacher. She hugs her. I have to look away.

  ‘They’re always hardest on their mums,’ says Miss Tabitha behind me. I had no idea she was there. I try to collapse the buggy, but something is stuck in the wheel and it won’t fold properly.

  ‘She’s good as gold when she’s here,’ she continues, twisting the knife further into my heart. I carried her in my belly. My body was sliced open to get her out. I’ve kept her alive for three and a half years. I sacrificed my work, I lost a husband. How does she think it is reassuring to hear that I am the only person to whom she expresses hate?

  The buggy won’t close. I want to get out of this nursery and away from Miss Tabitha’s nonchalant and unhelpful support. I am so hot in this heavy velvet and the extra layer of insulation that lies beneath it. My stress levels are not something I can hide.

  ‘Can I help?’ she asks, infuriating me further.

  ‘No,’ I reply, sweat appearing on my forehead and dripping down my nose. I wipe it away with my billowing velvet sleeve.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help?’ she says again, as if I’m an idiot. If she went away I’d be able to do this but she is standing over me like a teacher assessing my work. I am really struggling now. I know my rage is against me, and that if I stopped banging the bloody thing, took a breath and went at it a bit easier it would do what it normally does and just fold. But I’m annoyed, I am making a point and backing down isn’t part of my DNA.

  ‘DAMN IT,’ I shout, slamming the buggy down and kicking it with my foot. I try not to swear, even in times of high stress. There is a moment of stillness before I realise a few of the other teachers have joined Miss Tabitha, and that one of them has shut the door into the nursery to shield the children from my aggression. They presume I am about to apologise. I am not.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ I say, my top lip curling over my teeth like a wild cat’s. Something about the way I say this makes them all take a step back. A brave one starts walking slowly towards me with an extended hand.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I bark.

  ‘I’m not going to touch you,’ she says gently. ‘I’m going to collapse the buggy for you. There’s no need to be so angry.’

  ‘No need to be angry?’ She has no idea! I feel a hand on my back. ‘Leave me alone, please,’ I screech, launching myself forward and landing on top of the pushchair. With me lying across it, it shoots about four feet down the corridor and crashes into the wall. The skirt of my dress gets caught in the wheel. An ear-splitting ripping sound fills the hallway, and my dress is torn open from the hem to just above the knee. I’m left lying across the pushchair with my legs exposed. They can see my legs. I could react with tears or ange
r. I, as usual, choose the latter to mask the former.

  ‘Now look what you made me do!’ I yell, jumping to my feet, desperately gathering my torn skirt so I can hold it shut with my hands. They say nothing but look at me with as much disdain as their job description will allow.

  I have to get out of here. I can’t face these women again. Not now they have seen my legs.

  ‘You know what? I’ve been unhappy with this place for a while. You feed them too many snacks. Bonnie never eats her dinner,’ I say, charging toward the closed nursery door.

  ‘Ruby, the children are about to start their music class. Let’s leave them to it, shall we?’

  I ignore Miss Tabitha. I have to get out of here. They saw my legs. Oh God, they saw my legs. I open the door to the nursery, all of the children turning to look. I walk over to Bonnie and tell her to come with me.

  ‘No,’ she stomps.

  ‘Bonnie, come with Mummy please. It’s time to go.’

  ‘No. No,’ she screams, lying down flat on the floor.

  ‘Come on!’ I say, calm but stern, acting like I have a total grip of this situation. I am her mother. She can behave this way, but ultimately has to do what I say. I try again.

  ‘Up now please, Bonnie. We have to go.’

  She is now cataclysmic. Screeching and writhing, desperate to be saved from the horror of more time with me. I feel the same agony, but I cannot back down. I keep hold of my skirt with one hand, not allowing the split to open again.

  ‘Right, Bonnie, enough!’ I say, as I pick her up with my spare hand. I don’t know how I manage it, sheer desperation maybe, but soon she is up and on my hip. She kicks and pulls but I hold her as tight as I can and I storm out of the room. Teachers try to stop me, but I need to get out of here. And I can’t come back. Not now they have seen my legs.

  I pick the stroller up with my left hand and carry both Bonnie and it out of the door and on to the street. The split wide open. Why oh why would this happen on the day I didn’t wear tights?

  I call Liam. The phone rings out. I call again. No answer. He texts immediately.

  Sorry, in Amsterdam at this conference. Everything OK?

  Damn it, I forgot he’s away this week. I tell him nothing is wrong. He replies again with a picture of a very unattractive dog he said he saw.

  Can you show this to Bonnie? She loves a dog!

  I don’t reply.

  My phone rings out twice, then rings again. I’d put it back in my bag and am desperately trying to retrieve it while Bonnie screams in her buggy.

  ‘I want to go back to nursery,’ she chants. I want her to go back too, but I am too distressed to turn around. They think I’m crazy. They saw my legs. I can never go back. Ever.

  By the time I find my phone I see that I have three missed calls from my mother. She hasn’t called me in around three months. Why now? It’s like she knows. I am having a disastrous parenting moment and she is right there to rub it in.

  I struggle on for a while and we come to the entrance of a park. I push Bonnie in, and let her out of her buggy. She immediately runs off and starts collecting sticks and leaves, happy. I take a seat on a bench and call my mother back, taking in a long slow breath before I do.

  ‘Who is this?’ she asks when she answers. She is drunk, I can tell.

  ‘Hello, Mum, I saw that you called.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m in a park with Bonnie,’ I tell her, knowing this mood well, and knowing that detailed responses are pointless. ‘Just calling back to check you’re alive.’

  ‘Like you care, you little beast,’ she says, followed by a cackle so loud I put my hand over my phone to make sure no one else in the park hears it.

  ‘Don’t be unkind, Mother.’

  ‘What did you say?’ she asks, her tone instantly snapping into defence mode.

  ‘I said, please don’t be unkind. I don’t like it when you call me that.’

  ‘Oooo, she doesn’t like it when I call her that. She gets all upset. The poor ugly beast.’

  ‘Mother, did you want something specific because if not I am going to go.’

  ‘I’m going to kill myself,’ she says. Suddenly deadpan.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I tell her, as I have done so many times over the years.

  ‘You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it tonight.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ I say.

  ‘Yes I will.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask her, wondering if this might be the one miraculous time I get an answer.

  ‘Shut up. It’s not like you care about me—’

  I hold the phone away from my ear while she continues to rant abuse.

  ‘Are you done?’ I ask, after a minute or so. She seems to be and goes quiet. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’ I brace myself for the next stab.

  ‘Go on then. Piss off. If your own mother doesn’t love you, who will?’ she says, before hanging up.

  I feel tears begin to well in my eyes as I watch Bonnie play happily without me. I know the second I tell her we need to leave, she will act just like my mother does towards me. Screaming, kicking, yelling, telling me she doesn’t love me, acting like my very presence in her life is unbearable. I never imagined that becoming a parent would be like reliving my adolescence. Minus the cruel name at least. Mum has called me ‘The Beast’ ever since she burst in on me in the shower when I was sixteen. It’s why I never dare risk my own child seeing me naked. Who only knows what cruel salutations a toddler might come up with.

  How does everyone else make parenting look so easy?

  ‘Move please,’ says a man who is standing in front of me, blocking my view of Bonnie.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I reply, with a certain amount of attitude.

  ‘Please move from the bench,’ he repeats. ‘Please.’

  ‘I absolutely will not move from this bench. I was here first. I’m watching my daughter.’

  ‘Look, I’d really appreciate it if you would go and sit over there. Please,’ he says calmly, still laden with something heavy. ‘You don’t understand. Please, just move.’

  He points to an empty bench a few metres away. I can’t be bothered to fight him – I have had enough conflict for one morning and need a break. I gather my bag and the buggy and move a few benches down. Making sure he hears me say ‘Up yours’ as I go.

  As I settle onto my new seat, I have one eye on him, and one eye on Bonnie. She is playing happily, so I concentrate most of my attention on the man. Is he trying to watch Bonnie play? He’s now revealed that he is carrying a packet of baby wipes. It’s very odd. I cautiously start to move towards my daughter, just in case.

  But then he stands up and faces the bench. Using the wet wipes he cleans the bird poo and any other dirt off the slats. Scrubbing hard in places, polishing others. It is meticulous work. By the time he has finished, it is gleaming like the day it was painted. Satisfied, he sits on it and looks out at the park. I can see a million thoughts passing behind his eyes. I wonder what they are. Eventually, he stands up slowly and walks away; somehow, a little less upset than he was before. What an extraordinary show to witness.

  I head straight over to the bench. A silver plaque is attached to the middle of it that I hadn’t noticed before.

  Verity, loving daughter and sister. Gone too soon, forever missed and loved. Your spirit will always live in these gardens. 1989–1996

  I sit on the bench and look over at Bonnie. Could the man be Verity’s father? I try to imagine losing Bonnie. Wondering how I would feel if all I had left were my memories and a bench.

  I need to work harder at those memories.

  2

  Beth

  Some days I get to work and spend the first thirty minutes looking at pictures of Tommy. I’ve got a box of disposable nipple pads in my drawer because every time I think about him my boobs leak. And I think about him a lot. Is organising weddings really the job that should take me away from my tiny baby? I mean, if I was a nurse, or an astronaut, or about to
discover the cure for cancer then sure, get back to work and save the world. But I organise unnecessarily expensive weddings for extremely rich people. I’m selling a product I don’t necessarily believe in. Painting a picture of marriage as an idealistic partnership that begins with a party and stays just as joyous for years to come. But that isn’t the experience that I have had.

  Hey Boss, had an email from a woman who has a budget of £5,000 but wants an entirely vegan wedding for 65 people. What do you think? No leather, organic fabrics, the whole shebang. What shall I tell her?

  My assistant, ‘Risky’ (youngest of three, her parents let her siblings name her) emails me, despite sitting less than three metres away. She doesn’t remember a time when people didn’t have computers to communicate on their behalf. It’s like she forgets she can just talk to me. Sometimes, she even sends me an email, hears it ping into my inbox, watches me read it, then asks me what I think. It’s really extraordinary. I email back. I’m not the one who’s going to tell the future it’s wrong.

  Tell her she can have whatever she wants. I’ll meet with her after ROD

  ROD is the code we use for Lauren Pearce and Gavin Riley’s wedding. We tell them it stands for ‘Riley Order of Day’. But actually we call it ‘ROD’ because when we first got the job Risky said, ‘I’d love Gavin Riley to hot rod me.’ It made me laugh so much we named the project after it. It makes us chuckle, but if anyone realised what it really stood for they would probably get all offended. There isn’t much of a sense of humour in the serious world of celebrity. A lot of the time it’s like we are organising a political dinner. Lauren Pearce is so famous she thinks the government is bugging her phone. I’ve been sent more NDAs for this wedding than Trump’s cabinet give to their female staff.