‘She’s a morbidly obese alcoholic who lives in Cornwall and communicates mostly via status updates on Facebook, which I am rarely on.’
‘Hard not to take a suicide threat seriously though, I made that mistake.’
‘You did?’ I ask, wondering if he means his wife.
‘My other daughter. The one my wife and I managed to neglect as we dealt with our grief around Verity. She reminded us she was still alive by trying to kill herself on what would have been Verity’s twenty-first birthday. Luckily she didn’t manage it, but it certainly woke me up to what she needed.’
‘What did she need?’
‘She needed us. All kids want is their parents to tell them everything is going to be OK. But when you’re a parent, and you don’t know if everything will be OK, it’s hard to pretend.’
‘Yes,’ I say, knowing I have made no effort to pretend to Bonnie that the world isn’t a cruel and horrible place. ‘Well, it sounds like she has you now. Don’t underestimate that. I only had my dad until I was sixteen but that short amount of time with him is the only reason I have a soft side. His influence is inside me somewhere. He died just before my mother’s weight gain turned her into an unthinkable cunt.’
‘Woah, strong words,’ he says, and I hope I haven’t offended him.
‘Sorry, I don’t swear very often. Only when I really need the extra words.’
‘Was your mother really so bad?’ he asks me, as if maybe I’m bitter and exaggerating.
‘Yup, even worse. She drank herself to sleep every night and spent the days exhibiting clear signs of a bipolar disorder that to this day remains undiagnosed. She was cruel and hateful. I know it’s not always someone’s “fault” when they are that way. Once when she was drunk she made a comment about how her granddad touched her up in the bath. She never mentioned it again, but I’m sure it was probably true.’
‘God, that’s terrible. Your poor mum,’ he says. And of course, he is right, she didn’t ask to be abused. But neither did I.
‘I suffered as much at the hand of that abuse as she did. The only thing that ever connected us was our mutual need not to be seen. That doesn’t offer much time for mother–daughter bonding.’
‘Why would a woman as beautiful as you not want to be seen?’
‘I … um … I …’ I can’t think of a thing to say back to that. Part of me wants to slap him in the face, accuse him of being a pervert. Push his compliment away like it’s a knife trying to stab me. The other part is so amazed that this man has the capacity to be kind after what he experienced that I feel like should accept his compliment and not make his day harder than it probably already is.
‘That’s very kind,’ I say, eventually. ‘I have a condition that affects my confidence. I’m a work-in-progress.’
‘A condition?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it’s mostly aesthetic. If you don’t mind I won’t go into the details of it.’
‘Of course. Look, if your condition affects your confidence then that’s one thing, but to turn that into your kid’s problem, that’s another. You’ve learned how damaging that can be. Everyone has something, but it isn’t our kids’ faults. Your mum failed you. That sucks.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘I realised I was messing up my other daughter just in time. My ex-wife though, she’s yet to adjust.’
‘She isn’t kind?’
‘She isn’t kind, she isn’t supportive. She isn’t all sorts of things. Her grief is complicated. She never wanted kids. Sometimes I think I forced her into it. Then one of her kids dies. She resents the grief for a person she didn’t really want in the first place. She now obsesses over creating a world of perfection to mask her pain. That’s a lot of pressure on my daughter – forced into stifling her real feelings. Count yourself lucky, you and Bonnie have each other. You’re there for her, she’ll be there for you. You’re doing everything right.’
She’ll be there for me? I think about that all the time. When it comes to me and my mum, she feels like the child and me the adult. I always wonder now if I should be trying to help her more. I’ve thought about going to Cornwall, gathering her things, bringing her back to London and having her live in my spare room. But history reminds me what a terrible idea that would be.
‘Well, I better get going,’ the man says. ‘Have a good day.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say as he walks away.
He really is very handsome.
7
Beth
I typed ‘having sex in open spaces with people watching’ into Google to see if other people enjoyed it too, and quickly discovered it’s called ‘dogging’. There are multiple websites listing locations for this activity, talking about it like it’s a meeting spot for dog walkers to meet for a cup of tea. The language is so casual. Stuff like, ‘Many doggers like to remain in their cars, others enjoy having sex on the bonnets or against a nearby tree.’
People all over the country are doing this in their lunch hours. Apparently, for married people who like to watch strangers have sex, it’s the best time to get away with it as it doesn’t eat into family time. Wow.
The ‘doggers’ drive to a known location and have sex in (or on) cars. Some just watch, others participate. Of course, I’ve heard of dogging, but it always sounded so much more sinister than what I experienced. Other than the act of having sex in an open public place, it didn’t feel sinister. It felt exciting. I can’t stop thinking about it. The way the man looked at me, the way she didn’t want him to stop. They knew I was there. That was the whole point. Apparently by doing it in the open air like that they were potentially inviting others to join in. I can’t stop wondering what it may have been like if I had.
‘Beth, did you finalise the foyer arrangements?’
I’m looking at a website for a woman who says she travels the country dogging and likes sex with as many strangers as possible. Once she even got tied to a tree and was left there, so whoever was passing could give her a quick bang. There is no mention of how she got down.
That feels extreme.
‘Beth, earth to Beth, the foyer arrangements. Did you finalise the flowers?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The flowers, for the foyer?’ Risky says, a little impatiently.
‘Oh, no. Can you please?’
She gets up from behind her desk and walks over to mine. She’s wearing another crop top. I have half a mind to ask her to stop dressing so seductively at work. I realise that would not be OK.
I slam my computer shut.
‘Beth, are you OK?’ she asks, concerned.
‘Yup, absolutely fine. Why?’
‘You just seem a little distracted.’
‘Me? No. Just busy. Busy busy busy.’ I make a buzzing sound, like a bee. Risky’s sympathetic look gets even more sympathetic, as if I am losing my mind.
‘You know, I can totally hold the fort here if you need a day off. Go home, get some sleep, spend some time with Tommy and Michael.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a lot. Having a baby, working full time, breast feeding and pumping all day. You’re exhausted and unfocused. When my sister had a baby she didn’t realise she had a problem for months.’
‘A problem? What problem, I don’t have a problem,’ I say, defensively. Can she somehow see my search history? Jesus, I only went dogging once, and that was an accident. I’m only googling it to see what it was called.
‘You must miss Tommy and Michael so much, the timing of this wedding is very unfair on you. I really admire you for keeping going. You’re an inspiration to me, you know.’
‘An inspiration?’ I ask. I wonder how inspiring she would find me if I told her I am fantasising about cheating on my husband. How I am so tired that I can’t remember if I gave my son a middle name or not. And how all I can think about is that man’s bottom smacking into that woman from behind. But sure, a total inspiration.
‘You need to consider more self-care,’ Risky says, crossing her arms and raising her eye
brows. ‘I’ll look on Groupon and see if I can get you a good spa deal, OK? You’re so frantic. Have you thought about meditating?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘OK, well maybe you should download these apps.’ She slips me a Post-it note with the words ‘Time for Me’ and ‘Get Away with Yourself’ written on there. She obviously had them written down for some time and was waiting for an opportunity to give them to me.
‘You need a better work–life balance,’ she says. ‘If women are going to have it all, they’re going to have to take better care of themselves.’
‘You know what? Maybe I will go home today,’ I say. I should try to make things better with Michael. We have a baby. We can’t fall apart.
‘I think you should. I’ll call if I need you but I’ve got this.’
‘Oh but Gavin’s brother is coming in later to get the cake toppers. Apparently, he lives nearby so can whip in.’
‘Boss, I think I can handle giving him the cake toppers. Honestly, take a day, I’ll be fine,’ Risky says. And I know she is capable.
‘OK, thank you,’ I say, packing up my computer and putting it in my bag. ‘I’m very lucky to have you,’ I tell her, because I am. She is a lovely assistant. A true romantic, and an actual nice person. Apart from the anal, which makes me wonder if she has a dark side. Or do sweet people do anal too? All I know is I’d take it up the nose if someone was offering it to me right now.
‘I’m lucky to have you too,’ she says. ‘Now come on, go be a mum for an afternoon, you deserve it.’
Ruby
When I wake up my first thought is for my mother. It’s very annoying to be programmed to care, when I would rather just forget about her entirely. I send her a message, just for my own peace of mind.
Good morning, Mum. Here is a picture of Bonnie from the park yesterday.
I attach a photo of Bonnie playing. My mother doesn’t reply but the message shows as ‘read’. She isn’t dead. I can now get on with my day.
Surprisingly, Bonnie doesn’t fight me as I get her into her buggy this morning. Getting dressed isn’t awful, breakfast doesn’t end up on the floor. She watches TV as I get ready and doesn’t scream the house down when I turn it off. I give her some raisins to eat on the way to her new nursery, and she says thank you. Which almost blows my brain right out of my head.
‘Where do you think the mouse is now?’ she asks me on the way.
‘Probably with his family,’ I say, confidently, yet shivering at the thought of a bunch of mice breaking back into my house.
‘Why are we going this way?’ Bonnie asks me, realising our route has changed.
‘You’re going to a new nursery today, how exciting,’ I say.
‘Why?’
I don’t give her an answer.
We arrive at the location, and a tatty door with an intercom. I ring the buzzer and the door clicks open. Almost immediately a strong smell hits me as we go inside.
‘Pooh! What is that?’ Bonnie shouts, pinching her nose in a cartoon fashion.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, covering mine too.
The smell is terrible, but the dirt on the floor is worse. This place is not clean, it feels depressing and the few children, all much younger than Bonnie, look like zombies with streams of green snot hanging from their noses. A young woman comes over to us, her clothes covered in paint. Her hair is greasy. I want to ask her if she has ever even heard of dry shampoo. I did notice there was no Ofsted rating on their website but assumed it was because it was newly opened. Nothing here looks new.
‘Hello, I’m Maria. Are you Ruby and Bonnie then?’ she asks me.
‘Yes …’ I reply. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We have a blocked toilet. Should have it fixed today, they kept cancelling. But they said they’d come out today so that’s good.’
‘How long has it smelt like this?’ I ask.
‘Only three days. Hello, you must be Bonnie?’
Bonnie turns her head to the side, suddenly very shy. Or nervous. Or repulsed.
‘Say hello, Bonnie,’ I say. She doesn’t. I undo her straps and try to get her out but she goes stiff as a board.
‘Come on now Bonnie,’ I say gently. ‘Do you want to play with the other children?’
After looking at the other children, she shakes her head. I ask her again. This time she screams no, and throws her arms around my neck, almost choking me. I can’t pull them apart.
‘Bonnie, come on now, this is your new nursery.’
The stench is horrific, but we are here and I need to work today. I can find somewhere else, but for now, this is it. They will get the smell fixed, and maybe the cleaner is ill. I’ll suggest I pay week to week as it’s mid-term.
‘Bonnie, please, come on.’ But she won’t let go. She is crying painfully, and screaming. It’s not her usual tantrum, it’s more desperate than that. More genuinely upset than her just trying her luck.
‘This happens a lot,’ Maria says. ‘Separation anxiety. It’s normal when a child has been one-on-one with the mother until now. She’ll settle – sometimes it takes a week or so but they always calm down.’
She thinks Bonnie and I have been one-on-one until now? I don’t correct her.
I look around the room again. The children are playing with toys. There isn’t much laughter, or much action happening yet. But it’s only 8.30 a.m. And maybe the older children aren’t here yet?
‘Ahhh, you’ll miss your mummy? I know. But Mummy has things to do. Here, come to Maria. I have Barbies, do you like Barbies?’ Bonnie shakes her head. She has never had Barbies; I don’t want dolls in the house.
‘What about Lego?’ I suggest.
‘No.’
‘Play dough?’ Maria chimes in.
‘No.’
‘A book?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to ride a bike?’
‘No.’
‘Have a snack?’
Maria is sounding a little desperate now.
‘Maybe it’s best you just go, I’ll see you in two hours.’
I peel Bonnie off me, Maria pulls her away. She is crying so much her head has turned purple. She doesn’t want to stay, she doesn’t want me to leave. Would I want to stay in a dirty new place that stinks of drains? No. But it’s a nursery, she is safe here. The toilet will get fixed, the floor will be swept, and I need to work.
I head for the door without looking back. The sound of Bonnie’s screams follow me down the street. For the first time I think I understand what people mean by ‘mother’s guilt’. I never imagined I’d be the kind of person to feel it.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren in a bubble bath. There’s a highly indulgent level of bubbles. It is the middle of the day. Candles are lit and the edge of the bath is visible and made of solid marble. There is a glass of champagne next to her. It isn’t clear who took the photo.
The caption reads:
Self-care, guys. Who is with me? If we don’t take time for ourselves then what do we expect? I feel blessed to be living the life I am living, but that doesn’t change the voices in my head saying I don’t deserve it. My anxiety is a daily battle. I wake up and have a green juice, I exercise, I do all the things you’re told to do for a better life, but then BAM, when I don’t expect it, fear creeps in and takes over my day. A voice tells me I don’t deserve this. I am living someone else’s life and any minute I will lose it all. I try to be strong. Every day I tell myself, ‘You are alive, you have it all, you are loved’, but my self-doubt tries to take all of these things away from me. The battle is real. Maybe all of these bubbles will get me through the day #AD #selflove #selfcare #VeuveClicquot #spon #bubbles
@TeddyFerrington12: I’ll give you something to be anxious about love
@LaurensGirl: I wish I could hold you to make you feel better. I could, if you answer your DM’s. I sent you my number. Call me. Wee culd be friends.
@Gapetour40: NOTICE ME
@uptowncreek: Bet Gav loves boning you. I would.
@policypipeline: Not being funny, but do you think it’s appropriate to talk about solving anxiety with alcohol? Not really the right message to all of your young female followers, is it? Please be more responsible if you are going to present yourself as a role model.
@Adriannaspeaky: Thank you for talking out about anxiety, even if you don’t really have it.
Beth
As I open the front door to my house, I am met by the sound of laughter. It is Michael and his mother, they are on the sofa. She is rubbing his feet. Tommy is in his bouncer on the floor.
‘Hi,’ I say, softly.
‘Beth, you’re home.’ Michael jumps up to give me a kiss. He seems nervous to see me. Janet sits back, raises her hands up then lets them slap down onto her thighs, as if to say, ‘Well that’s the end of that then.’
‘Yes I thought I’d call it a day at the office, I wanted to see you and Tommy. Janet, hello,’ I say, politely, nodding in her direction.
‘Beth,’ she says, barely raising a smile. She can hardly look at me after Dildogate.
I walk over to Tommy and pick him up. He cries immediately.
‘He’s hungry,’ Janet informs me.
‘I know, it’s time for a feed, which is why I rushed home.’
‘We have a bottle heating up,’ Janet says, getting up to get it. Michael goes all weird.
‘It’s OK, Mum. Beth can feed him herself if she’s home.’
‘But I was looking forward to giving my grandson a bottle. Oooooh,’ she says, like I was walking towards her with an ice cream that I dropped just before it reached her mouth.
‘Beth, is it OK if Mum gives Tommy a bottle?’ Michael asks me. My boobs are so full, I’ll have to pump. Which feels so stupid when I am in the room with my baby. But anything for an easy life when it comes to Janet.
She comes over to Tommy with the bottle, picks him up and starts to feed him. The milk in the bottle looks different.
‘Wait, that milk is so white,’ I say, knowing my breast milk is usually a little more yellow. I look over into the kitchen and see an open box of formula on the counter. ‘Is that formula?’ I ask, the ball dropping.
So Lucky Page 13
