The hand on the leg is causing me distress. I can’t imagine easy breezy affection like that. It’s so rare that Michael makes any physical connection with me at all. The concept of my husband touching me should not feel so alien.
‘OK, so music,’ I say, snapping myself back to reality. ‘I have the DJ booked for later on. And I spoke to Bastille’s manager, they are absolutely up for doing the first dance as well as the later set. All they’ve asked for are snacks and a few bottles of champagne, which is no problem. Would you like me to invite the band to the wedding breakfast?’
‘For sure,’ Gavin says, squeezing Lauren towards him. He is so tactile with his wife-to-be. The rumours of infidelity that surround him are hard to believe when he seems incapable of taking his hands off her.
Lauren smiles, shyly. Gavin runs his hand up her leg and it takes a hard push of professionalism from me to keep my focus on the job. I once heard that he shagged Felicity Smithe, a model, in the toilet of a restaurant during a lunch sitting while Lauren was waiting at the table. Apparently one of the waiters saw them walk in together and leave a few minutes later. It’s one of those whispered celebrity gossip stories that everyone seems to know, but never made it into the papers. In fact there are a number of those rumours floating around about Gavin. It’s not impossible to imagine that they might be true. Physically he is little short of perfect. And then of course there is the money and power. Women must throw themselves at him all the time. But yet, he chooses to marry Lauren Pearce. I have so many questions that I plan never to ask.
But I always wonder: if I know of his infidelity, surely she must too? But who would tell her about the rumours? I get the impression she doesn’t have many real friends; every time I asked her about bridesmaids she was never sure who, or how many, she would have. Eventually she settled on a couple of models who are her ‘besties’ according to her Instagram feed. I heard one particular rumour that Gavin had a threesome with both of them.
Suddenly the door crashes open.
‘I hope you didn’t start without me?’ says Mayra, Lauren’s mother, striding into the room. She is a tall, stunning blonde, probably in her early fifties, but really she could be any age and I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s had a lot of work done, her clothes are always stunning, and she is vegan.
‘Hey Mum,’ Lauren says, with a light tone of sarcasm, hinting that Mayra might have actually acknowledged her.
‘Sit up straight, Lauren,’ she says, raising her eyebrows to the rest of us. ‘My goodness, twenty-eight years old, the future wife of a tycoon and she still needs her mother to correct her posture.’
She takes a seat on the sixth chair and gets out a notepad. Every time Mayra arrives at our meetings everyone snaps into action. She is like Lauren’s manager, and clearly has a strong hold over her and her career. She micro-managed the menu selections, forcing me to try multiple desserts that she wouldn’t eat herself. I happily obliged.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I’d say. ‘If I can’t indulge now, when can I?’ Over twenty pounds of excess later, I think I maybe should have stood my ground.
‘Oh my goodness, how could I have been so stupid,’ Mayra says, walking over to Gavin. She places a hand on each of his cheeks and kisses him on both sides of his face. ‘My darling, looking dashing as always.’
Gavin seems used to it. Mayra doesn’t apply the same affection to her daughter and sits back down. I think I catch Lauren rolling her eyes.
It’s quite awkward.
‘OK, shall we crack on?’ I suggest. Risky nods enthusiastically, she’s still quivering with excitement.
As the meetings gets underway, I’m sure I catch Mayra adjusting her cleavage and winking at Gavin.
I probably just imagined it.
Ruby
I still haven’t found Bonnie a new nursery. I meant to email around after finishing the Sara Jenkins retouching job yesterday evening, but it took a lot longer than planned to meet Rebecca’s exacting standards, so Bonnie’s on the sofa watching TV, again. She will probably watch it all day. Which makes me feel bad, but I’m not sure what else I am supposed to do. I have a lot of work to do.
I thought about the mouse all night. I was certain it would crawl on me in my sleep. Have babies on my pillow, or nibble at my toes. I really shouldn’t have googled, ‘What is the worst thing that can happen when you have a mouse in your house?’ The results were on a par with going camping and watching The Blair Witch Project on your way there. I am jittery to say the least.
I carefully moved the suitcases, box files and shoe boxes so that I can enter the kitchen. I am wearing tight black leggings with my boots and a tight black polo neck. I don’t usually wear tight clothes at this stage in the cycle as the hair pokes through the fabric, which is the single most disgusting thing I can imagine, other than a mouse getting stuck in my skirt or sleeve. Which is why I am basically wearing a cat suit. No entry points into my outfit. A mouse touching me is my worst fear.
I edge cautiously into the kitchen. There is no sign of the mouse. I pop some bread in the toaster. What happens next is the single most traumatic experience of my entire life.
The mouse leaps out of the toaster. Like a bouncy ball on the way back up it flies into the air then lands with a splat on the kitchen floor. I scream as if a murderer wielding a machete has just jumped out of my toaster, and climb back onto a chair. My heart is racing, and my breath almost impossible to catch. I watch as the mouse lies deathly still on the floor. I wonder if it’s dead. It is probably wondering the same thing. Then it gathers itself and darts towards its usual escape route. It runs at it over and over again, headbutting it, desperate to break through the steel wool but it can’t get through it, no matter how hard it tries. It bolts around the perimeter of the room then disappears up and underneath the drawer in which I keep all of my plates.
I realise Bonnie is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. She gives me such a start that I scream at her face. Of course, this sends her running off and balling as she climbs the stairs.
‘Bonnie,’ I call after her. ‘Bonnie, I’m sorry.’ But she is in her room and it’s probably best she stays there for a minute. This mouse means business.
I google ‘homemade mouse traps’. According to the Internet, I need a bucket, a stick, and some peanut butter. I have access to all of those things. I put the bucket in the middle of the kitchen floor. As per the instructions, I smear the peanut butter heavily around the inside of it. I then put the ‘optional’ four inches of water into the bucket. The stick is resting between the floor and the rim. Apparently the mouse will run up the stick, following the smell of peanut butter, fall into the bucket and drown. If I don’t put the water in, it will get stuck in the bucket and be unable to escape. Both methods catch the mouse. So I guess it’s just down to me and how much I want the little sod to die.
I stare at the water and imagine the dead mouse floating in it. Why is that so unbearable?
I jump when I realise Bonnie is standing by the kitchen table. This time I manage not to scream at her.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks me.
‘Go back to the sofa please,’ I tell her. She doesn’t move.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Bonnie, there is a mouse in the kitchen and I am trying to catch it.’
‘A mouse?’ she asks, excitedly.
I carry on building.
‘What’s that?’ she asks.
‘It’s a trap.’
‘Why is it a trap?’
‘So I can catch the mouse.’
‘Why is there water in it?’
‘So it … because when it falls into the bucket … because if there is no water then it won’t …’
I empty the water out again. I have no idea how I will cope if I find a live mouse in the bucket, but for some reason the idea of a drowned one is even worse. If Bonnie saw it first she’d be quite upset by it. If I catch a live one and it can’t get out maybe I can put a bread board over it and Liam can get
rid of it when he picks Bonnie up on Friday. Whatever, I probably won’t even catch it. This trap is ridiculous.
‘Can I keep it?’ Bonnie asks, coming closer.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a mouse and they’re dirty and I hate them.’
‘You shouldn’t say hate. You have so many words, why do you say hate?’
‘It’s not that you can’t say hate, it’s that you should reserve it for the things you actually hate. Like, I really do hate mice. They scare me.’
‘Scare you, why?’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘They scare me because they’re tiny, and so quick. And they make horrid scratchy noises and wee all over everything. They spread disease and they’re furry and …’ I shiver, I need to stop talking about them. I feel like they are all over me again.
‘But I like furry things,’ she says, confused as to why I wouldn’t. ‘And you’re furry.’
I freeze. So she did notice it before she was sick on me. I wait for her to say something else, something cruel, but her focus is entirely on the mouse.
I grab the bucket and put it in the corner of the kitchen.
‘Come on, Bonnie. Let’s get out of here,’ I say. ‘The mouse will never go in if we are standing near it.’
Together we rebuild the barricade, and then head back to the TV.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren cuddling a little dog. She is on a sofa laughing, as if the dog is tickling her. Both physically and figuratively. It is unclear who is taking the photo.
The caption reads:
Being mummy to this guy is everything. How is it possible to love something this small so much? As long as I’ve got this guy, everything will be OK … who is feeling me with the #petlove #selflove #selfcare #dogsofinstagram #womensupportingwomen #LOVE #happiness #happy #AD #CuteyCollars
@heliumhater: That dog looks like a pair of slippers.
@didshereallydoit: Ahhh, he’s so cute. I love how much you love him. You’ll be an amazing Mummy one day
@flippeditthreetimes: More posts with Gavin more posts with Gavin
@soletrader: have you had your tits done?
@queerearforthehateguy: do you actually work?
@helenofOhBoy: YOUR LIFE IS PERFECT
Beth
There is no better feeling than my baby’s actual lips on my nipples. Pumping is exhausting and makes me feel like a milk machine, but I have to keep it going. I don’t always have time for these moments.
When I get home from work I give Tommy his last feed before bed; my body feels relieved and my boobs are gloriously empty. It’s a feeling no pump can achieve. The endorphin rush of being where I am supposed to be makes me emotional, but I bank it. There is no need to be upset, I’ll get my time with Tommy when this job is done. Until then, I won’t complain about the night feeds, I’ll cherish them. Adrenalin is keeping me going. I actually feel pretty good about everything, other than my husband finding me repulsive, of course.
‘So how was your day?’ I ask Michael, as I come back down and into the kitchen. I have my dressing gown on, and I slipped on a nice bra and some pretty knickers but he doesn’t know about them yet. They are cutting into me a little, but I think I still look hot enough. I hadn’t realised he was on the phone; he puts his finger over his mouth as if to tell me to ‘shhh’.
‘OK Mum, dinner is almost ready so I’d better go. Bye, chat tomorrow,’ he says, bringing his call to an end and looking at me as if I should wait. ‘Right, sorry about that,’ he says, giving me the all-clear to speak again. I’m not sure why my presence at home would be so terrible for his mother to know about. ‘Tommy had a good day today. He finished his bottles, did two poos, one went all the way up his back and took half a packet of wipes to sort out. The other was nice and hard,’ he says, filling me in. He knows I like all the details.
‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ I say, flirtatiously. He looks at me curiously as he hands me a glass of wine, then turns away.
‘What are you cooking?’ I ask. It smells delicious.
‘Spaghetti bolognaise. You need to keep your protein levels up if you’re going to keep breast feeding,’ he says, stirring his beef sauce.
‘Yes doctor.’
He cares about me. I know that much.
I watch him, his back to me. He is thicker around the middle than he used to be. His brown hair is now almost completely grey. He has a tea-towel tucked into his jeans pocket, another over his left shoulder. He tastes the sauce, adds a little salt and tastes again. I move a little closer and put my arms around his waist. I feel his body stiffen as though he just died and rigor mortis has kicked in.
‘I love you,’ I whisper in his ear, holding a little tighter.
‘Love you too,’ he says back, sweetly. ‘And I’m proud of you. You’ve taken on a lot in a time when you should be a big blob in front of the TV for a few months. Who says women can’t do it all?’
‘Thanks. Having a house husband helps.’
‘Having a progressive employer helps,’ he says, reminding me he will be going back to work as soon as this wedding is done.
I hold a little tighter, pushing my body into his back. He strokes my forearm like it’s a guinea pig at a petting zoo. Gently, as if it might bite, or give him fleas. Kind words flow out of him so easily, yet physical affection seems to get stuck just under the surface.
‘What are you doing?’ he says, elongating the ‘iiiiing’ in a fake playful tone.
‘I dunno,’ I whisper, undoing my dressing gown and turning him around. I hold it open, so he can see my underwear. I know my body has seen better days, but I still feel sexual. And if I feel sexual, then why should my body matter? My mother was a really open woman. When I was an insecure teenager, she told me that men find confidence the sexiest thing of all. I’ve let those words drive me for most of my life. It’s only now that I am starting to doubt them. Doubt myself.
‘Beth, come on now,’ he says, pulling my dressing gown back together. ‘Not here.’
‘Not here? In our house?’
‘Beth, please. I’m cooking.’
‘Turn it off. Come on, let’s do it, here, on the chopping board.’ I pull myself up onto the kitchen island and open my legs. I’ve got underwear on so it’s hardly an X-rated image, but he can’t cope with it anyway.
‘Beth, please. Come on now, don’t be … Don’t be …’
‘Don’t be …? Come on, say it,’ I press, presuming he is about to say something like ‘silly’.
‘Don’t be gross.’
‘Gross?’ I repeat, my eyes unable to blink. ‘You think I am gross?’
‘No, you’re not gross, but all this …’ He flicks his hand around, gesturing to my body. ‘It’s just a bit …’
‘Gross. Yes, you said.’
‘I was just on the phone with my mum, you can’t come in and beg for sex when I’ve just been talking to my mother.’
‘This isn’t begging, this is offering, Michael. There’s a big difference. I’m offering my husband my body because I’d enjoy it if he took it.’
‘Either way, it’s all a bit … desperate. Isn’t it?’ He’s turned around now, back to his bolognaise.
Desperate?
After a few moments of him stirring, and me not knowing what the hell to do next, he breaks the silence.
‘What shall we watch with dinner then?’
Really? He’s going to move on, just like that?
‘I don’t mind,’ I say, trying not to sound upset.
I tie up my dressing gown and go plonk myself on the sofa, upset and despondent. As I search through Netflix for something good enough to distract me from the disaster that is my sex life, he lays my food on the coffee table in front of me.
‘It’s brown rice pasta,’ he tells me. ‘Healthy.’
‘OK,’ I say, not really hungry.
‘Yes, I thought few healthier choices
wouldn’t do any harm. Love you,’ he says, heading back to get his own plate.
I eat the entire bowl.
Ruby
‘I think you learn by example when it comes to parenting, don’t you?’ I say to the man on the bench. I’ve brought Bonnie back to the park, hoping he would be here. He is. I was pleased to see him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot.
‘I guess, but also, I hope not. I think, more importantly, we take our experiences with our own parents and adjust it for ourselves. At the end of the day, we all just do our best, don’t we?’ he says.
I look at Bonnie and realise that that’s exactly what I am not doing when it comes to her. My best.
‘My mother is a horrible woman. She was a horrible mother,’ I say, forgetting myself a little. Just telling this man the solid facts. ‘She was cruel to me, she still is.’
‘That’s terrible. And unfair. But you say parents lead by example? Clearly you don’t.’
‘I try.’
‘She’s adorable.’
I’m not cruel to Bonnie like Mum is to me. I don’t call her mean names or taunt her. I wouldn’t do those things. I’m not nice though. And most of the time she’s angry with me or scared of me. One of the two. And that is entirely my fault.
‘So what was Verity like?’ I ask him, not knowing what the right questions are.
‘Oh, she was very sweet. Calm, kind. I like to think she was like me, she didn’t want to be the centre of attention. The exact opposite to my other daughter, who is much more like her mother. They are both quite hard to manage at times.’
So Lucky Page 9
