Then she kicks me in the face.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren sitting on the edge of a bath, one leg lifted and her foot beside her. One hand has a razor in it, the other is holding her phone. She has a black silk robe on.
The comment reads:
Body hair, why do we even have it? I mean, I know it was supposed to keep us warm when we lived in caves, but we have clothes now. I love having silky legs (Gavin likes it too;). Did you know that if you run out of shaving foam you can just use your conditioner? Oh, I know … such a good beauty hack. You’re welcome. #beauty #selflove #nohairylegsthanks #LaurenPearce #womensupportingwomen
@jemmajubes: No way?? Doing that tonight
@garflib: GENIUS. I don’t know how he is the one with the empire when you are this brilliant (eye roll)
@daveyodavey: Take that robe off next time.
@betterthangoodfor: I bet your mum is so proud, seeing you half naked on Instagram. I bet its all she ever wanted for you. #Getarealjob
@sesememe3: Your skin is like china. You’re perfect, keep being you.
@mellisaheart: Has Gavin got a big dick?
Ruby
Small victories are all you can cling onto when you are as terrible at parenting as I am. I sometimes wonder if I have any positive impact on Bonnie at all, but I’m experiencing a rare moment of elation at the thought that maybe one of the things I have told her has gone in. It’s a terrible shame I have to enjoy this triumph with a black eye of my own, but it is what it is.
When we leave Marks and Spencer I take her back to the park. It’s a lot easier than having her at home, and if we spend an hour or so here, then I won’t have to feel so bad about her watching TV for the rest of the day while I work in my office, hiding from the mouse. When we arrive, I see the man again. He is sitting on the bench holding a packet of baby wipes. The bench is pristine.
I find comfort in knowing other people are hurting. I have a habit of telling myself that I am worse off than everyone else. When I meet someone else with a physical or emotional defect, I feel connected to them. I guess that makes sense.
Bonnie is playing happily alone, kicking leaves and running in circles around a tree. I sit next to the man. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being on the bench now that he has cleaned it. His hands are clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He is looking out into the park, those memories replaying for him again. As if stumbling on a particular moment, he smiles to himself. It brings him out of his trance and he notices me beside him.
‘Your daughter?’ he asks, pointing towards her.
‘Yes. Her name is Bonnie,’ I tell him.
‘That’s a beautiful name.’
‘Thank you.’ I don’t tell him I regret it, he doesn’t need to know. ‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I say. He could shut this conversation down if he wants to, I almost certainly would.
‘Yes, I’m here every day.’ He turns to acknowledge the plaque. ‘This bench is dedicated to my daughter, Verity. She died when she was seven. We used to come here all the time.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah. Thank you.’
We sit for a few moments and watch Bonnie. Her sweet, innocent energy captivating us both.
‘How old is she?’ he asks me.
‘Three and a half.’
‘Ah, that was my favourite age.’
I have a feeling that I could have said Bonnie was any number of years, and that this man would have said it was his favourite age. But if anyone has the right to romanticise about parenting, it is him.
‘Lovely that you’re with her during the week. My wife insisted Verity went to a nursery even though she didn’t work. Then she went to school. If I could go back I’d quit my job and be a house husband, but you never think like that when they’re alive.’
‘I guess you don’t,’ I say, choosing not to tell him the truth: that I spend very little time with Bonnie, and that I am finding these few days of having no childcare incredibly challenging.
‘I have a bench dedicated to my dad in Cornwall,’ I say, wanting him to know I have a little understanding of grief. ‘He died when I was a teenager. I know we’re designed to outlive our parents, and I’m not comparing what happened to me to what happened to you, but it’s nice to have a place to go to remember him because his death really tore me apart.’
‘This bench is a vital part of my survival. We spread some ashes here too. I’m as close to her as I could possibly get when I sit on this bench. Do you get to your dad’s bench very often?’
‘No. No, unfortunately my mother and I don’t get along and trips to Cornwall have become quite rare.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Not all mothers are good to their children. Bonnie is very lucky to have you.’
I want to tell him that she isn’t. That I am not a good or nice mother. If I were to be honest with him, I would tell him that some nights I lie in bed dreading the morning because my interactions with her are often so distressing. Some days I stand outside her nursery and take long, deep breaths to try to stop the tears consuming me as I prepare myself for the two hours of childcare I need to get through before I put her to bed. I could tell him how I don’t really know what she likes, because I rarely ask her. Or that when she cries, I tell her off instead of cuddling her. I could tell him all of those things because he is a stranger and it wouldn’t matter. But I don’t.
‘Yes,’ I say, instead of all of that truth. ‘I feel very lucky to have her too.’
‘Well, cherish every moment,’ he says, getting up. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ I say, smiling as he walks away. I wait until he’s gone before I try to get Bonnie home. He doesn’t need to be reminded how hard parenting can be.
Beth
Sometimes, because there are only two of us and we can work remotely, Risky and I work in a lovely café around the corner from the office. We cover the table in paper and talk to people on the phone – probably to the huge annoyance of the people around us. I always have the full English breakfast, a smoothie and a decaf coffee, aka the most pointless drink on the planet. But I love the taste and I have to watch my caffeine levels because of breast feeding Tommy. Risky always gets the avocado on toast, but only eats half of it. She washes it down with around three large lattes. If Risky was around in the Eighties, she’d definitely have been a chain smoker.
‘Look, it’s awful and I’m really sorry it happened, but it wasn’t anyone here. OK? I hope you get to the bottom of it. And yes, tomorrow is fine,’ I say to Lauren’s PR, Jenny, on the phone, whilst rolling my eyes at Risky and trying to eat a piece of sausage as quietly as I can. Someone leaked a wedding invite and she’s obviously calling everyone on her contacts list and having a go at them. This is quite typical of Jenny. PR around Lauren and Gavin is impossible to control; she likes to make herself feel useful by yelling at people on their behalf.
‘OK, what do we need for the meeting with Lauren and Gavin tomorrow?’ I ask Risky.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m going to meet Gavin,’ she says, fanning herself with a menu.
‘Risky, do I need to worry about you getting overexcited?’
‘No, no boss, I’ll be OK. I probably won’t be able to get a single word out. Gavin fucking Riley. My mother is going to have kittens, she’s obsessed,’ she says, beginning to perspire.
‘He seems nice enough,’ I say, calmly. I’ve met Gavin a few times now. He’s very handsome. Charming. Everything you would expect from a young, hot millionaire businessman from perfect stock. He’s definitely got a glint in his eye, which is a little suspicious, I think.
‘Poor Gavin,’ Risky says, calming a little, talking like he is an old friend.
‘Poor Gavin? For his business genius, perfect wife and couple of hundred million?’ I ask facetiously. Risky’s need to sympathise with everyone on the planet is really perplexing sometimes.
‘No, poor him for all that sex stuff.’
Ah, she is referring to the enormous sex scandal he was involved in a few years back. Totally guilty, I think.
‘That woman had clearly made up the whole thing,’ she says, stepping down from her feminist pedestal for just a minute. ‘As if he’d shag her with a champagne bottle. So clichéd and fake. Lauren handled it amazingly, she stood by her man. They must be so strong as a couple. Getting through something like that. I mean, I’m always for believing women, obviously. But she was so blatantly lying.’
‘Or maybe he did it?’ I suggest, daring to fuel her fire.
‘Beth, Gavin donated three million pounds to a women’s refuge charity last year. Plus, he just paid for a girls’ only soccer school. Not to mention the way he sacked his old CEO publicly when an employee accused him of sexual misconduct. He put out a statement saying his company, and him, have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to sexual harassment. Gavin Riley is more of a feminist than most feminists, there’s no way he’d cheat on his wife by sticking a champagne bottle up some slapper’s fanny.’
Turns out women supporting women is really hard when hot rich men get in the way. I keep that to myself.
‘OK, have we got everything we need for the meeting? You have their file?’
‘Check!’ she says, pulling it out of her bag.
‘You have some self-control?’
‘I think so!’ she says, with a strong exhale. ‘Oh, there was one thing. Lauren booked a photographer, Rebecca Crossly? Apparently, they just did a shoot together and she liked her, so that’s taken care of. Lauren posted about her this morning. Look at this amazing photo.’ Risky shoves her phone under my nose. I see a photo of Lauren, naked, as usual. Her modesty is protected by a strategically placed blanket. She looks every bit like she just got caught masturbating. ‘The photos are coming out after the wedding. Doesn’t she look amazing?’
‘Yes, she does,’ I say, turning away from the screen. I actually feel OK about my body until I look at pictures of thin and beautiful people on Instagram. It’s the main reason I don’t really go on it. I see it as a form of torture. It’s like being skint but walking around the Selfridges’ food hall. Don’t put yourself through it.
‘Rebecca Crossly,’ I mutter, typing her name into Google. A lot of heavily Photoshopped photos of naked women come up – it seems to be her thing. No weddings. But if Lauren booked her, then I guess that is fine. She fired the original photographer two days ago but her mother refused everyone I suggested. So now it’s not my problem. ‘OK, cool.’
My phone vibrates and it’s Michael calling on FaceTime. I answer and see my face appear in the corner of the screen. I’ve definitely gained a chin in recent months.
‘Hey, Mummy, I just wanted to say I miss you,’ he says in a baby voice, holding the phone to Tommy’s face. A woman on the table next to me smiles and Risky looks like she might ejaculate.
‘Oh, hey little man, Mummy misses you too!’ I say back, his gorgeous face making my breasts swell and my heart thump. It’s just another few weeks, then I’ll be with him full time. I can do this. ‘How are you guys doing today?’
‘We’re good,’ says Michael, holding the phone in front of his face now. ‘We just had a walk, and now we’ll have a bottle and bed. Your stash is running low, maybe we should be thinking about formula soon?’
‘No. No, we have loads of breast milk here, I’ll bring it home,’ I say, a little desperately. Breast feeding is my way of dealing with being back at work so soon after having Tommy. I might not be doing the day-to-day with my baby, but I’m keeping him alive with my boobs and that is really important to me right now.
‘OK, well we just wanted to tell you we love you,’ Michael says, squashing his face close to Tommy’s. He blows me a kiss, and we say goodbye. He’s always so sweet on the phone. Maybe it’s because he knows we can’t physically touch.
I realise that Risky has gone into a daze. She is resting her hand in her palm and smiling at me. ‘The dream,’ she says, sweetly. ‘You’re married to the perfect man.’
I smile and nod.
‘Boss, can I ask you something? Woman to woman?’ she says, looking pensive, turning inwards from the table next to us. I am expecting a question involving place settings, or suchlike, so nearly choke on a fried mushroom when she says, ‘Do you think it’s weird that the guy I’m seeing only wants to do me up the bum?’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s just that we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now and he’s all about anal. It’s like my vagina doesn’t exist to him. That’s not right, is it?’
I often worry that I don’t set enough boundaries as a boss, or make the line between work and friendship clear enough. What is apparent here is that I have absolutely not nailed that. I wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin and do my best to say the right thing.
‘Have you done the anal?’ I ask, like a grandma trying to be cool.
‘Yeah, obviously,’ she says, as if I am stupid.
‘Oh yeah, I mean totally, obviously,’ I say. Followed by some strange faces and little pfffttt noises to reiterate that I think anal is completely normal.
‘I mean, I don’t mind it. I like it, actually. It’s probably my fault for asking him to do it in the first place. But I just wonder what his deal is, why he isn’t interested in my vagina.’
‘You asked him to do it?’ I ask, casually. It’s been so long since I’ve felt able to behave like a vixen that I had forgotten some young women make their own sexual demands. I used to.
‘Yes, I asked him on, like, our third date. So not too bad.’
‘Not too bad?’ I ask, unsure what she means by that.
‘Yeah, not so early that he might think I was slutty. Anyway, it’s all he wants now, I wondered what you thought? I respect your opinion on healthy relationships.’
I clear my throat, drink some cold coffee, close my computer, and try desperately to think of something to say.
‘Maybe he’s gay?’ I say, eventually, regretting it instantly.
‘That is a little closed-minded, Beth. Just because a man likes anal, it doesn’t mean he is gay. And anyway, I’ve got lots of LGTB+ friends, and sexual orientations don’t bother me. I’m not exactly a hundred per cent straight,’ she says, proudly. Risky adores men; she is the most romantic and traditional woman I know. But her ‘generation’ wants to believe they have choices, and so she loves to tell me about the one time she kissed a girl at school. ‘My friend Casey and I once kissed for ten minutes. She even tried to finger me.’ She tells me the same story again, and I nod and smile because if I started asking questions about it, I’d probably never stop. I am thirsty for sex talk. It’s a shame I only have my assistant to do it with.
‘I just want to establish that my vagina needs love too, you know? I’m going to tell him tonight.’
‘You are? What will you say?’ I ask, hoping to learn a few things about how to communicate sexual issues within a relationship.
‘Oh, I probably won’t say anything. I was thinking about just using a dildo on myself at the same time. You know, just to remind him that the other hole is there.’ She looks pretty proud of herself for this idea, and nods a few times. ‘Yeah, I think that’s what I’ll do. Great advice, thanks.’ And then she gets back to work. The woman on the next table has gone the colour of ketchup.
Risky and I sit quietly at our table getting on with our work, our little conversational interlude hanging in the air like a fantasy I could reach and grab if I let myself. I take a huge intake of breath and blow it out quickly and loudly.
‘You OK, boss?’ she asks me.
‘Ah yes. Absolutely. Just working out what to do next,’ I say, getting up and stretching my arms in the air, as if I have nothing on my mind at all. I then walk slowly to the toilet where I masturbate furiously, before coming back to the table, ordering the bill, and suggesting we better get going.
Ruby
I saw the mouse
in the kitchen again this morning, and nearly went into a full-on meltdown. I went to two shops and both of them had run out of mousetraps, although one had the kind that are just a sticky strip. The guy told me casually, ‘The mouse sticks to the strip and can’t get off.’
‘What? So it’s stuck there? Alive?’ I asked him, so horrified I could barely speak.
‘Yes,’ he replied, as if to say, ‘Isn’t that genius?’
I had to get out of the shop immediately because I had the sensation that mice were all over me. I tried to get to a third shop but Bonnie was getting impatient, so we are home again. She is watching TV and I am Googling ways to get rid of rodents from your house.
As advised, I stuff every hole in my kitchen with steel wool. I then pour peppermint oil all over everything and create a barricade across the entrance to the kitchen with suitcases, box files and shoe boxes. I finally settle into my office, which is also the spare room, and try to breathe.
I can’t stop thinking about the man on the bench. I can’t deny I feel a little lighter having shared a moment with someone who is worse off than me. Usually, my only solace is talking to strangers on the Internet.
When I was a teenager and the hair started to appear, the World Wide Web wasn’t a resource I could use as it didn’t exist yet. And besides, it should have been my mother who comforted me. But she was already on the path to self-destruction, and offered me little but stress and humiliation. Not being one to connect with strangers over a problem, I’d never have thought to ask around to find out if anyone else suffered from the same condition. Also, back then, I didn’t even know I had a condition. I just thought I was a freak of nature. And my mother making jokes about it in front of other girls my age made it worse. I remember one time we were giving my friend Alison a lift home from hockey practice – an already traumatising experience for me as I’d insist on wearing a jumper and jogging bottoms while everyone else was in shorts and t-shirts. I’d get so hot I’d feel too faint to carry on, meaning that my hockey skills – which were actually pretty advanced – went unnoticed, because I was too busy trying to hide my body. When my mother picked Alison and me up on this particular day, she asked Alison if I had showered after the game.
So Lucky Page 7
