So Lucky

by Dawn O'Porter

  ‘No, Ruby showers at home,’ Alison said.

  My mother then had a field day.

  ‘No she doesn’t. You mean she doesn’t shower at school either? Oh no Ruby, you need to wash all of that hair on your back or it will get smelly. No one wants a smelly girl.’

  Alison laughed. I don’t know if it was out of awkwardness or because she and my mother were as bad as each other, but that laugh haunted me. The shower situation was far too challenging, so to avoid rumours about me never washing, I gave group sport up altogether.

  I committed to a life of hiding. Until a few years ago, after Liam and I split up and my despair was disabling me even more than usual, I finally took the time to search out forums where other women were experiencing some level of what I was going through. Of course, there were plenty. I have read countless accounts of how women hide themselves due to excess body hair. Relationships that have failed because of it. Childfree lives are a consequence of it. Self-hatred, self-harm all popular side-effects. There is reassurance in everything I read. Primarily to know that I am not alone, but most often the comfort comes in knowing that maybe my case isn’t the worst. I don’t mean that in the literal sense. The amount of body hair I have is extreme, that isn’t up for debate. I’ve yet to see or hear about anyone who has it worse. The hair is thick and dark, it covers most of my body. It takes hours to remove and grows back within weeks. It’s a terrible case of a horrible condition, but the comfort I take from the forums I visit is that, compared to a lot of people I read about, I am not depressed, despite the many challenges I have faced in my life.

  My mother was my first. My father’s death the next. My hormonal imbalance kicked in when I was a teenager and will be with me forever. It torments me, and pokes fun at me, keeps me up at night and tries to bring me down. But actually, when all is said and done, I don’t hate myself. Not really.

  My job helps. I’m really good at it. I mean, it’s vile and evil, and I am perpetuating beauty standards that I know are not real and that leave women – who don’t have issues anywhere as bad as my own – believing that they are not good enough. But I’m good at it. And I know it. It is important to me that I am not failing at everything.

  A lot of the blogs and posts by other women who have excess body hair are written by women who can’t see beyond it in any aspect of their lives. Failed careers, such a lack of self-belief that they gave up on themselves entirely. I haven’t done that. I make an effort with what I wear, I keep my weight down. I am excellent at my job. None of this changes much in terms of my self-esteem, but at least I still have the will to try.

  One particular online post grabs my attention.

  I cannot leave the house because of my facial hair. I am so ashamed, so embarrassed. My anxiety has gotten so bad because of it that I am no fun to be around. People hate me, I can tell. They don’t know what to say, because my social skills have become so bad. I used to be fun.

  My husband tries to get me out of the house. He is so loving and supportive, and we have a fairly stable marriage. I am very close to him, but no matter how much he reassures me, I can’t help myself.

  I have two children, aged six and four. I am very close to my children. I have talked to them about my problem and they understand how it makes me feel. They tell me they love me, and that I am a fun mummy. I find going out so hard that when I am home I do my best by my kids, I play with them, I read to them, I lie with them at night. It’s the least I can do to make up for them not getting invited to other kids’ parties, because the parents don’t want to have to talk to me.

  My husband and I are OK. I manage sex. He says he loves me and finds me beautiful, but how long will that last? I am a recluse. I can’t force him to be too. I’m scared for a future where my kids leave home and my husband meets someone else.

  I wish I could do better.

  It’s always so strange to read these posts. To know there are other women out there who have even a small clue about what I am going through. There we all are, being open and honest on the Internet. Sharing stories of how impossible the outside world feels. It’s like we enter into a black hole and come out in another universe. But we have to leave it and survive in reality. I wonder if one day, generations from now, people like me will be able to live entirely happy lives, just online. Experiencing total physical solitude, yet with thousands of people for company, who never have to see your face. Food will be delivered, clothes unnecessary. You could exist in whatever state you were dealt, and never have to feel ashamed.

  I click on ‘Add a Comment’.

  I just wanted to say that even though it might not feel like it, you are doing great. I am so like you, but in the process of self-punishing I managed to push away a man who loved me, and my relationship with my daughter is fraught. Feel good about the family you have created and hold onto them. I wish you all the best. Ruby x

  As I am about to click ‘POST’, though, I change my mind and delete what I wrote. What difference would it make anyway?

  I brought the baby monitor that I used when Bonnie was tiny into my office, so I can watch her in bed and make sure the mouse isn’t crawling on her in her sleep. I have work to do. I read an email from Rebecca about a new retouching job.

  The original photograph is of a young woman, an actress, apparently. Sara Jenkins. She had a baby last year and is posing naked to show off her ‘post-baby body’. Her post-baby body, in reality, isn’t great. There are stretch marks across her stomach, and a large red scar below her belly button. She has requested that I take away the stretch marks and the scar, thin her thighs, smooth her skin and give her a tan. All so she can lie to other women and make them feel like failures for not being perfect after the carnage of a C-section.

  This woman, Sara Jenkins, is a fraud. I give her the tan she asked for and cover the scar. I move her belly button up, give her a more defined waist, smooth her bad complexion. I try to leave a few signs of motherhood, to keep it real. A natural crease above her pubic area, just poking out the top of her tiny briefs. A few dimples on her thighs. I fill them in and thin them down like Rebecca told me to, but I leave the pores visible. She isn’t made of plastic after all.

  I send the finished image off to Rebecca. She replies in under ten minutes with more instructions.

  The PR went mental at this. Lose the crease above her vag. Smooth the thighs more. Hurry, please. They were supposed to be in yesterday.

  A few minutes later:

  Oh, and sort her chin out. I had to give her whisky to make her relax. She didn’t want to get her kit off. FFS.

  I do as I am paid to do and remove all signs of life. I am increasingly aware of the current culture, and how people are held accountable for terrible things they do or say on email or at work. I always try to write positive messages that exempt me from any future blacklisting or blame in this terrible world that I work in. My industry is under fire. A #MeToo equivalent is heading our way. I want to make sure I am not lampooned. I send the photos back with a note.

  Here you go Rebecca, please find attached the retouched images. It’s a shame so much work was requested as I thought the originals were lovely. I’m not sure she needed the whisky. Is there a less intoxicating method you could use? Taking some time? Talking? Clothing?

  I know it’s hard to work with a model and for an industry to whose beauty standards we are beholden, but as long as the requests are coming from those in the photo, then what are we to do? Ruby.

  She writes back almost immediately:

  Err, ok Ruby. Thanks for the lecture. Pictures look great. You made a tense bitch look hot AF. More soon.

  I am right though. The instructions for the retouching nearly always come from the person in the photograph, despite everyone else getting the blame for it. There is a backlash now, with lots of celebrities saying they don’t want to be retouched. And screaming about the attack on feminism if they are. Good for them, really. But as they attack the magazine editors on Instagram, and hammer an already dying in
dustry for hating women, they don’t see what I see. The women in the photographs themselves begging for perfection. Sending the pictures back to me again and again, until the image is so far from the original photograph that they are barely recognisable. They have to be held accountable too. So much of feminism leans towards breaking down the patriarchy. But every day I see that it is women who are damaging other women.

  What I would do to have their skin, their confidence? But maybe they are no different from me. They hide the truth as much as I do. They just hide it from a bigger audience, and with a lot less velvet.

  Lauren Pearce – Instagram post

  @OfficialLP

  The image is of Lauren and her fiancé, Gavin Riley. They are standing in a garden, he has a suit on, she is wearing a low-backed, black slinky dress. She is snuggled into him in an awkward embrace entirely set up for a photograph. He has his hands on her hips, she is turning to look at the camera, her left hand in full view. The enormous diamond engagement ring glistening in the sun.

  The caption reads:

  Love is the answer, always and forever. It’s just weeks until I marry this man. My love, my hero. Maybe I am the luckiest girl alive? He’s my scented candle, my relaxing bath, my CBD gummy … hahaha. You know what I’m saying don’t you? Even my anxiety can’t take me away from him. Who do you love this much? #PanteneFullVolumeShampoo? #Ad #loveistheanser #mentalhealth #findyourpeople Photo Credit @TheMayraPearce Hey mum;)

  @helpmyfeetshine: He is your scented candle? YOUR SCENTED CANDLE? FFS.

  @gogerritguuurrl: COUPLE GOALZ

  @ChattyMacHatty: One day I’ll find love like this and I will be this happy. For now, I’ll just live it through you.

  @Shawnty45: How do you always look so perfect?

  @bethanybeetsit: I am so happy for you guys. Can’t wait to see your dress.

  @helenviceP: I heard Gav banged a couple of models in the bog while you ate a salad in the restaurant, is that true?

  Beth

  Risky and I are meeting Lauren, Gavin and the PR Jenny at the Marriott Hotel on Westminster Bridge. An entirely random location, booked at the last minute, under fake names, to avoid any press intrusion. Jenny organised everything, and it all feels a bit dramatic. The hotel is one of those huge buildings with long corridors and hundreds of rooms. These places fascinate me. Hotels this size feel like worlds unto their own. Who knows what is happening in this building at any one time. Sexual deviants upstairs, major celebrities downstairs, no one with any idea that the other is there. Risky and I walk down the long corridor looking for a door with ‘Ralph Knott’ written on it, as that is where the meeting with Lauren and Gavin is happening. Risky is practically panting with excitement; she hasn’t met Gavin yet. She put make-up on for the entire cab ride and is acting as if she’s about to walk a red carpet.

  I knock on the door and after a few moments, Jenny comes to open it. When she sees us she rudely looks Risky up and down as if scanning her with some imbedded identification chip she has in her brain, then looks along the corridor like we have a team of investigative journalists behind us, before opening the door wide enough for us to get in. We have to duck under her arm. I am guessing this location is about Jenny trying to seem like she has control over the absolute mess that the privacy of this wedding has become. It doesn’t really achieve that though; it’s just given everyone a real ball-ache of a journey into central London during rush hour. I’d be a better PR than Jenny. Her lack of organisation and people skills is petrifying.

  ‘Did you see any paps on the way in?’ she asks me.

  ‘Nope, I didn’t notice any.’

  ‘They’re probably hiding,’ she says, checking the corridor one more time. I suppose she has to at least try to make people think she is important and competent.

  The room is big with wooden panels all over the walls. There are six chairs in a circle in the middle. It feels like we are a group of reprobates who are having a secret meeting. Maybe we are.

  ‘Lauren, so good to see you,’ I say, walking over to her confidently. I do my best to act nonchalant with any of my celebrity clients; I think it’s important for the business.

  ‘Hi, thanks for coming,’ she says, nervously. Clinging onto Gavin like he is an intravenous drip filtering small amounts of confidence into her. ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Oh, he’s great. So sweet.’

  Jenny lets out an uncomfortable sound and makes a strange gooey face. She is what the media would refer to as a hot mess. Previous conversations have revealed that she is single and childfree. She is about forty-five. She wears clothes that don’t suit her, too trendy. The heels are too high. Middle-aged fashion victims rarely look good. If you’re not dressing for yourself by forty-five then you need to have a major rethink. My shirt and jeans might not be fashionable, but I am extremely comfortable. Jenny reeks of a woman who never worked herself out. I, on the other hand, know exactly who I am. Chubby, married and gagging for a shag.

  ‘Oh my God, sorry,’ pipes up Risky, not exercising my calm and collected skills. ‘Sorry, I just …’ She doesn’t finish her sentence, she just hugs Lauren awkwardly, then shakes Gavin’s hand before giving him a kiss on the cheek and apologising around sixteen times for being so nervous. Jenny rolls her eyes at her. I smile and retain my cool.

  Gavin is a huge name in British finance. Chairman of Riley Ltd, he inherited a multi-million-pound empire when his father died suddenly at fifty-three. Gavin is young, gorgeous and very rich. He’s been renowned in the City ever since he was old enough to work, but he became a household name when he appeared as a ‘Dragon’ on the TV show Dragons’ Den. Now every woman in the UK’s fantasy, he is as famous for being sexy as he is rich. Through some family connection, I presume, he met the lesser-known Lauren Pearce, an underwear model. They are getting married, and now Lauren has been catapulted into the world of major celebrity. I get the impression she doesn’t really know what to do with it. For now, her unique selling point is definitely her body.

  ‘Massive fan of the show,’ Risky says to Gavin. ‘My mum is obsessed. For Christmas she got me one of those reading lights with the speakers that you invested in.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great. Yes, View-Voice is a great company, people love them,’ Gavin says, obviously quite used to these interactions.

  ‘You should make a video for your mum,’ Lauren says, seemingly very comfortable with Risky’s worshipping of her husband.

  ‘What? You would do that?’ I don’t know if I’m …’

  ‘Of course, what’s your name?’ Gavin asks.

  ‘Risky.’

  ‘Risky? That’s cute,’ Gavin says, causing Risky to buckle at the knees and blush like she’s had a bowl of tomatoes squashed into her face. I have noticed that celebrities call their fans ‘cute’ a lot. It’s endearing but establishes rank. You would never call someone you admire cute, would you? Risky is delighted with it.

  ‘Yes, my brother and sister named me,’ Risky says. ‘I think my mum regrets not saving that idea for our new dog.’ Everyone laughs, she is very good. I feel a bit proud of my assistant, especially for acknowledging her name makes her sound like a Cocker Spaniel.

  Jenny isn’t comfortable with this casual conversation and suggests we get on with it. I try to get the visual of Gavin doing Risky up the bum out of my head. I’m not sure where that came from.

  Risky looks at me for approval to pose with Gavin. There is a bold line in her contract that says she isn’t allowed to hassle famous clients for photos, but I say it’s OK. Everyone seems happy. I let it pass.

  ‘Hey Marion, I’m here with Risky and just wanted to say …’ Gavin pauses, and looks into the lens, his arm around Risky. ‘I’m out!’

  Risky almost collapses when he performs the show’s catch-phrase. ‘Mum’s going to die when she sees that.’

  Gavin, Lauren and Risky all watch the video back together and give it their mutual approval. ‘It would look great with the Aden filter if you post it. Make sure you tag me,�
�� Lauren says, suddenly in her element. Risky promises she will. It’s like they are talking in code.

  ‘Right, shall we kick this off then?’ I say, realising we could be here all day doing social media posts. ‘OK, who’s going first, shall I? My name is Beth and I’m addicted to weddings,’ I say, regretting it immediately. Risky bursts out laughing, as if her contract says she must support my comedy.

  Despite just agreeing to start the meeting, Lauren picks up her phone and checks it quickly. She leans over to Jenny and whispers, ‘That post about the wedding shoes got 156k likes.’

  Jenny looks thrilled. ‘You tagged Jimmy Choo, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d never not do that again, not after last time.’

  They both make a face that suggests Jimmy Choo himself was quite upset, and we finally crack on with the meeting.

  ‘OK, so we have lots to go through,’ I say, pulling a bunch of papers out of a plastic folder and resting them on my lap. ‘Shall we start with the order of the day?’

  ‘Yes, or maybe the music?’ Lauren suggests, in her gentle voice. She’s very pretty but nothing mind-blowing in real life. She has a sweet face, and a friendly smile. She looks as natural as a twenty-eight-year-old with bleached hair and a fake tan can look. I’ve noticed she often looks to someone else for confirmation after she has said something, as if her decisions always need to be backed up to make them valid. This time she looks to Gavin, who puts his hand on her thigh and says, ‘Whatever baby.’

  I look at his hand on her leg and it sends a shiver up my body. It landed so confidently on her. So solid and firm. He leaves it there and rubs it up and down. She shuffles her chair along so it’s closer to his, and he puts his arm around her as if she is cold, even though it’s very hot in this weird room. Lauren is childlike, I decide. Not the confident, bubbly person she puts on display on her Instagram feed. From what I have seen, there is always someone, or something, supporting her. Whether it be physical contact from Gav, emotional propping from her mother or reassurance from Jenny, someone is always egging Lauren on. She’s not the person you would expect to meet, the one who takes her clothes off a lot, who talks about happiness and confidence like they come naturally to her. To me she seems quite lost. Or maybe I am just projecting.