So Lucky

by Dawn O'Porter

‘So how is everything going with the sponsorship deal, is there anything I can do to help? Obviously it’s quite a unique set-up?’ I ask, referring to the million pounds Veuve Clicquot have offered her for posting Instagram posts throughout the day, featuring them heavily, and as many pictures of the happy couple as possible.

  ‘It is. It’s quite deliberate,’ she says. I’m not quite sure what she means. It shows on my face. ‘You know, to show I don’t have an issue talking about champagne?’

  ‘Ohhhhh,’ I say, realising she is referring to the rumour about Gavin shoving a bottle of champagne up a girl’s fanny.

  ‘Also, I’m one of the first to do a deal like this. It’s very exciting. Of course Gav said I didn’t need to do it but I like to show people I don’t rely solely on my husband. I’ll have total control over the images. My photographer will bring a retoucher, so they can work on the pictures as they are taken, I can approve them and then my mum will post them with a comment.’

  ‘Are you sure your mum is happy to do that, won’t she be wanting to enjoy the day?’

  ‘You’ve met my mother?’

  ‘I have indeed. She certainly knows what she wants for you.’

  ‘Sure, that’s one way to look at it. Anything to show the world how wonderful our lives are.’ She drops her head, looking sad, and I can’t tell whether or not it’s an act as we sit in this huge, beautiful kitchen.

  ‘I’m contracted to do twenty-five pictures on the day, but it might be more. We have to give my followers what they want.’

  ‘You talk about them like they are your babies,’ I say, jokingly.

  ‘I think of them that way. I wouldn’t exist without them.’

  ‘You wouldn’t exist without them? Of course you would.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. Not in any real sense.’

  ‘In any real sense?’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly Bella Hadid when I met Gav. Suddenly I’m extremely famous, but for what? For marrying someone rich? My Instagram feed and my brand deals give me something to stand for other than just being Gavin Riley’s fiancé. My followers mean a lot to me. You probably think that sounds stupid. You’ve got a baby, you don’t need followers.’

  ‘Having a baby doesn’t mean you suddenly don’t need anybody else. You want kids?’

  ‘Desperately, I always have. Gavin does too. It’s probably why he’s marrying me, he knows I want to start making a big family as quickly as possible. He needs someone to pass all this on to.’ She smiles as she looks around her enormous kitchen. I can’t work out if she’s happy or not, there is always some pain behind the pleasure. She doesn’t feel like the lady of a house like this.

  ‘And of course, there are the likes. They feel good,’ she says, snapping back to Instagram.

  ‘Yes, that must be quite addictive. I got thirteen likes for a post I did about a plate of chips last week. It was electrifying.’

  Lauren laughs. And I realise it’s the first time I’ve seen that happen.

  ‘Shall we see how our post is doing?’ she says, picking up her phone again. She made it a whole two minutes without touching it.

  ‘No, we don’t have to, it’s OK. I’m not famous. The only person’s opinion I have to worry about is my husband’s.’

  ‘I bet your husband is lovely,’ she says.

  I lie and tell her he is.

  ‘As is mine,’ she confirms, and I wonder if she is telling the truth.

  ‘Look, we already have 1,345 comments.’

  ‘What? That’s insane,’ I say, genuinely taken aback. She shimmies up to me and we both look at her phone. The photo of me is terrible, I am quite red and my skin is shiny. My cheeks are a lot chubbier than they used to be, and I really need a haircut. I hadn’t realised how long it had got. The caption says Meet Beth, my wedding planner. The woman making all my dreams come true.

  ‘That was a very nice thing to say, thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You’re welcome. Oh look, this guy always messages me. Same under every post: “That Gav, I hope he knows what he’s got.” It’s cute.’ She keeps scrolling through endless compliments about how beautiful she looks, how perfect she is. How jealous everyone is, how much they wish they were her. There are a few about Gavin, people saying they love him.

  ‘Your fans love you,’ I say. ‘I can see why you’re on it a lot.’

  ‘I block the haters. It’s a bit like trying to kill flies though, you get one but as soon as it’s dead another one appears. But mostly people are nice. Instagram is good … for someone like me,’ she says, suddenly quite coy.

  ‘Someone like you?’ I ask, gently. Not wanting to overstep any marks here, but fascinated.

  ‘Someone who’s trying to fill a void,’ she says, as if that isn’t a huge answer that obviously leaves me wanting to know more. She stands next to me and scrolls through all the comments. There are a few mean ones, but they are mostly about how gorgeous she is, how sexy, how lucky. She smiles as she reads them, and I wonder if, for a moment, that void she mentioned narrows a little. Then we see a comment that ruins the mood.

  Of course she’s a wedding planner, looks like she loves a buffet #fatty

  ‘Oh,’ I say, wishing I had pretended not to notice it.

  ‘Oh that idiot. Who is he anyway?’ she says, getting up and putting her phone on the kitchen counter. ‘People like him don’t matter. Some lonely weirdo who has nothing better to do than post things on the Internet. Ignore it.’

  I wonder if she sees the irony of what she just said.

  I sit up straight, and suck in my tummy. Suddenly feeling like a massive blob of flab.

  ‘It’s all good,’ I tell her. ‘I absolutely do love a buffet, so he’s not wrong.’

  She thinks that is funny.

  ‘I like you,’ she says, as if she’s thinking a thousand things but only saying one.

  I smile awkwardly. ‘Thanks, I like you too. Shall we get back to the wedding?’

  ‘Yes, let’s do this.’

  ‘So, the leaked invite. Is there anything I can do to help with that?’

  She rolls her eyes.

  ‘“Leaked invite”. Sure. If your mother handing an invite directly into the Sun’s showbiz editor’s hand is a case of a “leaked invite”. It’s OK, it was inevitable.’

  ‘Your mother did it?’

  ‘My mother does whatever she can for attention.’

  ‘And you’re OK with that?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I had to sign a lot of NDAs but your mum just hands out the invite?’

  ‘What do you think I should do, have her sign one?’ she says, snapping at me a little. ‘And maybe I’ll get Gavin to sign one too, stop him …’

  She trails off there. I say nothing, desperate for her to finish her sentence. She doesn’t. ‘How’s the baby?’ she asks me, moving on.

  ‘He’s fine, so sweet,’ I say. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Do you like your nanny? I worry we will never find the right person when the time comes. You hear so many terrible stories,’ she says, as if that is the biggest concern of having children. ‘I mean, it can’t be easy having to live with another person – luckily we have the annex.’ She points into the garden and at a little house.

  ‘I don’t actually have a nanny,’ I say, feeling like a pleb. ‘My husband is with him, he managed to get three months’ paternity leave. I’ll take a month or two off when your wedding is over, then I suppose we’ll work out the childcare. But this is working for now.’

  ‘Wow, your husband is looking after the baby? He took three months off work? Wow, Gavin would never do that. I mean, he’ll be a good dad, I’m sure. But would he do that? No way. You’re very lucky.’

  By the sounds of things she doesn’t plan to do much of it either. I don’t know why I’m judging her for that, I’m the one sitting here all upset about some guy calling me fat on Instagram, while my tiny baby is at home drinking from a bottle instead of my boobs.

  ‘Yes, so people keep saying,’ I say, a little more sarcastically than I
mean to.

  ‘Oh? Is it not as perfect as it sounds?’

  ‘Is anything?’

  She smiles and shakes her head. ‘Maybe never where men are concerned.’

  ‘You are also very lucky, and I’m sure you’ll find the perfect person to help you.’

  Lauren smiles, and takes a sip of her water. ‘Lucky?’ she says, as if I need to explain myself from across the giant marble table, in her giant house, in one of the most sought-after squares in North London. ‘I suppose it’s about what you consider luck to be. None of this comes for free.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you and Gavin work very hard. But you know, lucky to have a nice house, a gorgeous husband-to-be. A career. It may take work, but it still makes you lucky – not everyone who aims for this gets it.’

  Our conversation is interrupted by Mayra bursting into the house.

  ‘Beth, is this a wedding meeting without me? What’s going on?’

  ‘Hello Mayra, we were just going over a few things. Just over a week to go now, how exciting,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, Mum, it’s my wedding remember?’

  As if Mayra is reminded she has company, she switches into nice person mode.

  ‘Of course, it’s so exciting. Everything looking good, Beth?’

  ‘Great, yes. It’s all coming together,’ I say uncomfortably. She has a tendency to make you feel that way. ‘I better be off, is it OK if I use your loo before I go?’

  ‘Sure, down the hall, third door on the right,’ Lauren tells me. It’s quite exciting to pee on Gavin Riley’s toilet.

  As I come back up the corridor, I hear them talking quietly. It’s obvious the conversation isn’t very pleasant. I wait silently outside the kitchen, hoping they’ll finish.

  ‘It’s my Instagram feed, Mum. I’ll say what I want.’

  ‘But all that stuff about feeling unhappy. And feeling scared. You mustn’t talk like that publicly, it isn’t good for the brand. You make us all look so unstable.’

  ‘For the brand? Mum, it’s how I feel. If it was down to you my entire life would be fake.’

  ‘I think we should do a picture, the two of us, your hair’s looking so beautiful. Let’s give them something lovely to look at, shall we?’

  ‘But why? It’s fine to say it’s not all perfect, I—’

  I cough loudly to announce my return. Lauren looks visibly upset. Mayra looks as stony-faced as ever. But that could just be the Botox.

  ‘Right, then, I’d better go,’ I say awkwardly, picking up my bag. ‘I’ll see myself out. Call me if you need anything, OK Lauren?’

  ‘She will,’ answers Mayra, with a painfully fake smile.

  As I walk down into Hampstead Heath I let the fresh air fill my lungs. I could do with some exercise, and it’s so rare that I get to be fully alone. With Risky in the office, continuous phone calls, panic meetings and location visits, there is barely a second for myself. I tell my brides to look after themselves in the run-up to their weddings. To make sure they relax, to work on their ‘self-care’ regimes. Maybe it is advice I should take for myself, but when exactly am I supposed to do that? At home it’s Tommy and Michael, the night feeds, the strained conversations, the awkwardness of bedtime. It’s a lot. Wherever I am I always worry I’m giving one part of my life more attention than it deserves and neglecting the other. I need to find a better balance. Somewhere in this wild schedule there needs to be time for me and my own needs. Whatever they are. I don’t even know anymore.

  I get a bit lost, entering the park from a strange hill with multiple routes branching out at the end of it. Not really caring for a moment, and just wanting to walk, I take a left. It’s a little spooky, but I know there are people close by if I were to scream. In a clearing just to my left I catch a glimpse of something that causes me to blink furiously, wondering if it’s a figment of my imagination. Two naked bodies leaning against the bonnet of a rather sorry-looking Ford Fiesta. The car is parked in a tiny slipway, you’d need to know it was there to find it. Or just happen upon it, like me. I quickly dash behind a tree.

  There is no one else around, this isn’t one of the main routes into the park, but still they don’t seem to be trying to hide. They are screwing silently but frantically. The woman is bent over the car, the man is thrashing into her from behind. I’m trying to go unnoticed, but I can’t take my eyes off them. They are being so bold, they must know people will see? I watch subtly from as far away as I can. I should keep walking but for some reason I can’t move. All of a sudden, I get a flurry of text messages to my phone.

  Shit.

  I get it out of my bag. It’s Risky, something about the company Instagram page getting over 2000 new followers in five minutes. She keeps texting with higher and higher increments: 2040, 3200. I guess Lauren really does have all the pulling power, her post has made me famous. In a flap, I manage to put it on silent, and I put my phone back in my bag. The man looks up and sees me. I duck back but it is too late. I mouth that I am sorry, I bow my head as I back away. I try to act like it doesn’t matter, gesture that they should carry on. It’s my bad for being here, not theirs. He doesn’t seem worried. He gestures with his head for me to stay. He taps the woman on her backside, and points to me when she looks up. She smiles too, then closes her eyes as if my presence just increased her pleasure levels by double.

  I now feel like it would be ruder to leave.

  Still from behind the tree, I watch the couple as they continue to fuck like two animals in the wild. I am close enough to see the flesh on his buttocks shake as he slams into her thighs. Close enough to see her erect nipple in between his fingers as he rubs her breasts with his hands. Close enough to see the hairs in his hands as he pulls her ponytail. Close enough to see the fluff on her vagina as he pulls out, turns her around, goes down on her until she comes and then masturbates himself until he ejaculates all over her chest.

  It’s filthy. So real. Two normal people having genuine hot sex. The greatest porn. It’s not very often you catch anything like this, and to see it in the flesh … I’m so turned on I barely know what to do with myself.

  They get back into their car, where they put just their tops on and drive away. This is when I realise I am not the only one watching. I see a couple walk away from behind another bush, and a man whose face I don’t see. It’s weirdly unthreatening. It doesn’t feel as strange as it should.

  I am extremely aroused. Is that wrong? I think it is. Michael would not like this. But I did. I liked it a lot.

  I hurry home, I need to put this sexual energy where it belongs. Because that will make the fact that I enjoyed it OK.

  Ruby

  As I edge into the kitchen, Bonnie is standing right over the bucket, looking into it. She’s smiling. When she sees me, she points at it.

  ‘A mouse!’ she exclaims with total joy. Her bravery is astounding.

  ‘Bonnie, away from the bucket,’ I say, backing into the wall, scaling the perimeter of the kitchen in slow motion. In my heart of hearts I didn’t think my trap would work, I just needed to feel that I was doing something. But it caught the bloody thing in less than a day. Now I suppose I have to deal with it.

  ‘It’s cute,’ Bonnie says. Highlighting that cavernous gap between our characters. She reaches her hand towards it.

  ‘NO, Bonnie, don’t touch it,’ I scream, terrifying her again. ‘Bonnie. Mice might be sweet, but they are dirty. And it might bite you, OK? You have to be careful.’

  She seems to understand and retracts her hand, she even takes a little step back, which is a huge relief to me. If the mouse jumped out and landed on her, I’m not sure I would be able to protect her. I’d probably run outside and leave her to deal with it herself. I hate them so much. Oh my God, when I see it, I nearly vomit from fear. Its long tail is disgusting, its little body and teeth, its pink eyes.

  Breathing is impossible now, my heart is racing. I have to get it out of my kitchen.

  ‘What shall we do with it?’ Bonnie asks. She can’t take her
eyes off it.

  The way it’s running around in the bucket is awful. I should have drowned the bloody thing. Now it’s stuck in there and terrorising me. I’d planned to leave it until Liam came to pick up Bonnie on Friday, but I can’t have it in here. I just can’t. I won’t be able to come into my kitchen. I have to get it out of the house.

  ‘We have to let it go,’ I say to Bonnie. For a second or two, wondering how terrible it would really be to flush it down the loo.

  ‘In the garden?’ Bonnie asks.

  ‘No, it will just come back into the house.’

  ‘The park?’

  ‘No Bonnie, it’s too far.’

  I’m going to flush it down the toilet.

  ‘Where then?’ She looks up at me. Her eyes desperate, her pretty little face so adorable I can barely take it. She so rarely looks at me like this; she is softened by the presence of another heartbeat in this house. It’s just such a horrible shame it’s a rodent.

  ‘Please Mummy?’

  I’m transfixed by her for a moment, the sweetness in her tone, the delicacy of her face. It makes me respond exactly how I should, rather than how my brittle nature has often decided is normal.

  ‘OK,’ I say, stepping up. ‘Go and find your shoes. We’ll take it to the park.’

  I put on some Marigolds and get a roll of clingfilm out of the drawer. I remove the stick and throw it out of the kitchen window. I roll out some clingfilm to about twelve inches longer than the perimeter of the bucket, trickier than it looks whilst wearing rubber gloves, and lower it slowly. A wrong move from me and I could tip the bucket. My hands are in such terrifying proximity to the mouse that I want to close my eyes, but that could result in the mouse crawling into my clothes. I turn my head to the side, but stretch my eyes so I can just about see, and I lay the clingfilm over the top, pressing down the sides to seal it.

  Exhale. That was round one. I then add layer upon layer of clingfilm, longer each time so it doesn’t come away. I squash it to the sides, making it as tight as I can. I finish the whole thing off with a huge layer of kitchen foil that I scrunch into place and poke some tiny holes for air circulation with a pin. I now can’t see the mouse. That is better.