Liam was a gentle person. Friendly, sociable. His friends never really took to me. I’m sure I took him away from a more fun life while we were together. He didn’t seem to mind, I never stopped him going out when he wanted to. We used to have long dinners that involved hours and hours of conversation. I thought a relationship based on a genuine interest in each other was really wonderful.
We met when I worked in advertising. Generally, the people were abhorrent, but Liam was a freelance designer who would often be on email chains. Occasionally everyone was called in for physical meetings, and I met him in one of those. He followed me down the street afterwards and asked me for a drink. I obviously said no, but he was persistent. He had my email address and asked again later that day. It took a number of tries until I eventually gave in. I arranged the first date for after a wax and we surprisingly had a very nice time. I saw him again a few days later, then went quiet until after my next wax. I saw him every five weeks for around a year. He never lost interest. It all felt extremely out of body and not at all like my life. I only allowed him to have sex with me during the two weeks after a wax. The lights had to be off and I often kept a top on. I told him I had an issue with menstruation that made sex painful during other times in my cycle. He respectfully didn’t question it. I hid my body from him, I played hard to get, and then I’d come on strong when my body was how I wanted it to be. It was the best I could do.
And then he told me that he loved me.
I backed off after that. Told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. That the feelings were not mutual. If this turned into a real relationship, I kept thinking, I wouldn’t be able to hide for weeks on end. I’d have to tell him or, worse still, show him my body.
He got upset one night and asked me if I didn’t fancy him.
‘I’ve tried so hard to get close to you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what more I can do. You don’t seem to want me physically and I want to know what I can do to make it better.’
The fact that he presumed the problem lay with him devastated me. I knew I had to tell him, maybe even show him the truth about my body.
I took a deep breath.
‘I have a condition called polycystic ovaries,’ I said, looking at the ground. It felt like I was telling him I was ridden with a shameful disease that I had brought upon myself. ‘It means I may have trouble conceiving. It means I am in constant battle with my hormones. It means … it means …’
He waited for me to finish. He was good like that, never speaking over me. Always giving me space to just be.
‘It means I have thick hair all over my body. It’s repulsive and I understand if it turns you off me. I wax as often as I can.’ I lifted the skirt of my dress and revealed my hairy legs to him.
He laughed and I felt stupid.
‘Come here, Ruby,’ he said to me, calling me over to the bed. ‘I have hair all over my body too, do you think I’m repulsive?’
I told him I did not. He tried to make love to me, but I said I couldn’t do that. That it would take time for me to be able to let myself go in that way, that I couldn’t guarantee I ever would at certain times in the cycle. He respected that. He was relieved. He just wanted me to love him.
Then he asked me to marry him.
I look so thin in my wedding photos. Pale. Gaunt. My dress was lovely, I thought. I made it. It was inspired by a Victorian wedding dress that I found. I did my own hair and make-up, of course. But I didn’t do it very well. In Photoshop, I warm the tone of my skin a little, plumping out my cheeks, filling out the gaps under my eyes. It’s a subtle difference, but it makes me look better. The dress has ruffles all across the front. I chose that to distract from how flat my chest is. I enhance my breasts a bit, adding a cup size or two. It looks better.
Why stop there? It’s for my eyes only.
I drag out my hips, giving me a much fuller figure than I would ever allow, but often dream of. A voluptuous shape, a bottom that men would admire. It looks good on me, I can’t deny that. I smooth away the veins on my hands, shorten my fingers a little, plump them up. I put some extra shine onto my hair, make my feet smaller and take away the veins on my neck.
I look lovely. An image I would be quite delighted with. I suppose if my pictures were being seen my millions of people, I’d want this work to be done on them too. Maybe Lauren Pearce isn’t as crazy as I thought. It’s nice to look at photographs of yourself that boost your self-esteem. But of course, this isn’t real.
I look at the photo for a while, wondering what a different life I could live if I could make those changes to myself for real. It would be better, I don’t doubt that for a moment. I’d be happier. I’d probably still be married.
My phone rings. It’s the nursery. They keep calling and I keep letting it go to answerphone. This time I feel bad and listen to the message.
‘Hello Ruby, it’s Maria again. Please could you let me know when you’ll be able to collect Bonnie, she really isn’t having a good day …’
I shut down my computer and get myself ready to leave. It’s Friday tomorrow, Liam will come and take over at six. I’m looking forward to the weekend where I’ll only need to take care of myself.
I take one last look at the retouched wedding photos and leave the house.
Beth
‘What?’ Risky says, picking up her phone.
It is very aggressive for her. I pretend not to notice and shift my gaze to my computer screen.
‘Yeah, and I meant it.’ She gets up and moves over to the window. ‘I said it because it needed to be said.’ She starts to pace up and down. Whoever is on the phone is really annoying her. I carry on pretending I haven’t noticed.
‘Why? What do you mean, why? Because it doesn’t feel right, that’s why.’ She covers the end of her phone with her hand and lets out a frustrated sound, rolling her eyes at me. ‘You can’t just ignore it,’ she continues. ‘No, you have to at least acknowledge it. It’s like it’s not even there. Well of course it matters, it’s my fucking vagina.’
Oh wow. She is talking about sex. I get up slowly. I’ll sneak into the bathroom until she’s finished. But she sees me get up and rushes over, putting her hand on my arm and squeezing it tightly as her frustration mounts.
‘I don’t hate it, I like it, but that isn’t the point. It’s not all I want. You’re giving me a complex about my vagina. I don’t need that in my life, OK? Is there something wrong with it? Why won’t you have sex with it?’
I check to make sure she isn’t drawing blood on my arm, it really hurts.
‘Oh yeah? Well then it’s over, OK? I can’t do this anymore. That’s all you want, and I want respect. Do you know what else wants respect?’
The guy on the phone and I hang tight for her answer.
‘MY VAGINA.’
She hangs up on him, lets go of my arm and screams at her phone.
‘Well that seemed to go well?’ I ask.
‘I love it up the bum, Beth. But my vagina needs it too,’ she says, utterly forlorn. So much vagina chat for one afternoon.
‘Shall we get on with some work?’ I suggest. ‘We’re on a deadline here, Risky.’
She ambles back to her desk, her mind clearly still focused on sex. Sitting down, she picks up her phone and starts angry texting. Then she starts smiling, and her phone rings. This is fascinating.
‘Hey,’ she says, heading back to the window. ‘Yeah, I did it. Yeah, I guess so … I mean, if you want us to be?’ She is making her legs go all kooky and twirling her hair. ‘Ha-ha, oh you do, do you?’ She giggles. ‘Oh yeah? I do too. What, now? Adam, I’m at work.’
‘ADAM!’ I say in a loud whisper. She shrugs as if she just can’t help herself.
‘No, not here,’ she says. ‘No … OK, OK, give me a second.’
Risky winks at me – any authority I had as a boss has all but evaporated – and takes her little pink dildo out of her bag and disappears into the toilet.
‘OK, OK, I’m nearly there,’ she tells him.
‘They’re black … and lacy … I’m not wearing one. I’m not!’
She shuts the door. I am left alone at my desk, in my office, while my assistant cracks one out in the bathroom, over the phone with my client’s brother. How the actual hell is this happening?
The office door suddenly pops open.
‘Michael, what are you doing here?’
‘Tommy wanted to surprise Mummy at work,’ Michael says, coming into the office holding my baby.
‘Right, um, well how lovely,’ I say.
‘Where is Risky?’ he asks me.
‘Oh, she’s in the toilet. She might be a while. Big lunch.’
I wish I hadn’t said that.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks me. I should be happier to see them.
‘Yes, yes, fine.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Risky says, coming out of the toilet. (That was quick.) ‘You need to prepare me for this level of cuteness.’
She takes Tommy from Michael as he unclips the carrier. ‘Hello gorgeous baby. Oh, he’s got your eyes, Beth. And your nose, Michael. He is the perfect mash-up of both of you,’ Risky coos. She makes funny faces at Tommy, he smiles.
‘How lovely of you to drop by.’ Why am I sounding so formal with my husband? ‘I mean, you should have called ahead and we would have tidied up,’ I say, giving Michael a kiss on the cheek.
‘Oh God, you guys kill me!’ says Risky. ‘I’m always telling Beth how you have my dream marriage. You’re very special you know, Michael. Taking care of the baby like this while your wife works. Such a modern man.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Michael says, blushing. ‘It’s just what you have to do, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so, but not all dads are willing to do it.’
Risky’s praise is nauseating. A dad fulfilling his potential as a parent doesn’t mean he should be branded a hero.
‘Have you fed him?’ I ask.
‘Nope, I thought you’d like to feed him?’
‘Great. Risky, bring him here, would you?’ She does as I ask. ‘Come on little man, come to Mummy.’ He latches onto my right boob and we both feel the release of it. I love him so much. Everyone told me I would feel a love I had never felt before, but I didn’t realise it would feel so different from how I feel about everyone else in the world.
‘How great does Beth look for someone who just had a baby?’ Risky says to Michael. ‘I keep telling her what a hot Mumma she is but she won’t believe me.’
‘Risky, please!’ I say, hoping she shuts up. I don’t want Michael to be forced into noticing me and then lying about how he feels about it.
‘Yes, yes she’s looking well,’ Michael says. One hundred per cent less enthusiastic about my appearance than Risky.
‘And what about those whoppers?’ she says, pointing at my breasts. ‘I bet it doesn’t feel fair, for them to look so amazing but you’re not allowed to touch them.’
She thinks she’s hilarious. Risky prides herself on saying whatever she wants and being very open about sex. To be fair to her, she is talking to a married couple who shouldn’t be finding this so excruciating.
‘Yes, they are nice,’ Michael says, not knowing where to look. He manages almost everywhere except at me.
‘Oh look at you, getting all shy,’ Risky says. ‘Look Beth, he’s blushing.’ I pretend to tend to Tommy. I can’t look at Michael. Someone even saying the word ‘hot’ around us has become unbearable.
‘Sooooo, do you think you’ll have another one?’ she asks Michael. ‘People always ask women that, but that isn’t fair, so I always make sure I ask men too.’
‘Um … I don’t know about that, we’d have to …’
I wonder if Michael is going to say ‘have sex’. But of course he doesn’t.
‘… Move, probably. We’d need another bedroom. And we don’t really want to move, do we Beth?’
‘No. We don’t want to move.’ I give Risky a firm eye, urging her to shut up but she doesn’t get my point.
‘Well, I suppose the joy of having one is that you get your marriage back nice and quick. You hear such terrible stories of relationships falling apart after babies. One of my mum’s friend’s husbands just left her after twenty years because she totally lost her sex drive after their third kid.’
‘OK, Michael, I think Tommy is full,’ I say, standing up. Poor Tommy doesn’t know what is going on and starts to cry hysterically. ‘I’m sorry love, we have a big meeting in about twenty minutes and I need to prepare for it. Can you take him home?’
Michael can’t get Tommy in the carrier quick enough. He is screaming and wants more milk. Risky is faffing, she can’t cope with a baby crying. No one can, it’s a horrible and traumatising sound. But nothing is worse to me right now than Michael staying here and Risky trying to spark a conversation about our sex life.
‘Bye love, see you after work,’ I yell down the stairs, over the sound of Tommy’s screams. My nipples are spouting and soaking my top. I could cry at the thought of what our marriage has become.
‘That was nice,’ Risky says as I come back into the office.
‘Yeah, lovely,’ I reply as I sit back at my desk.
‘Here,’ she says, handing me some tissue for my leaking boobs. I pat the outside of my shirt, then shove a couple of nipple pads in my bra.
Risky gets another text message. She grins and replies enthusiastically. Looks like she’s got the horn again.
I pretend not to notice.
Ruby
When I picked Bonnie up from nursery at five p.m. she was sitting in a corner alone, with bright red eyes and an exhausted face.
‘She didn’t settle all day,’ Maria tells me. ‘It would have been much better if you had picked her up when I called.’
I told her I was sorry, but that it had been impossible for me to leave work. Maria said that Monday must be different. ‘Bonnie has separation anxiety and needs to be settled in slowly.’ It’s the worst she’d ever seen from a three-year-old, apparently. She asked for me all day long.
My little girl asking for me? I’d resigned myself to that never happening. Frustrating as it is for her not settling in, it’s nice to know she needs me. This week hasn’t been entirely terrible. Bonnie has watched a lot of TV in the time we’ve spent together, but we have had some nice moments too. More in a few days than we have had in months. Maybe Bonnie is responding to that, she wants to be with me more. But I try not to think about that too much, because what it also means is that I have been neglecting her for a long time, and that the moment I put more effort in to our relationship, her behaviour towards me has changed. This is quite a frustrating realisation.
Bonnie refused to get into her buggy. But only because she wanted me to carry her home. She wrapped herself around me and wouldn’t let go. Her head lay gently on my shoulder. My back is sore from carrying her for nearly a mile, but I wouldn’t have put her down even if she had asked me to. I don’t remember the last time she held onto me like that. It gave us both a great deal of unexpected comfort.
‘I have a little present for you at home,’ I whisper into her ear to cheer her up. She cuddles me even tighter.
‘What is it Mummy?’ Bonnie asks excitedly.
‘You’ll have to wait and see.’
Her gorgeous blue eyes are sparkling at the thought of it; the excitement helping her to forget the agony of the day.
‘It’s up in your room,’ I tell her as I open the front door.
Bonnie runs up the stairs as quickly as she can, I follow her up. In her room she scans the floor then looks in her toy box.
‘Maybe try your bed?’ I suggest, and she immediately finds the cuddly toy all tucked up.
‘A mouse,’ she says, pulling it out from under the duvet and hugging so hard she squashes it almost completely.
‘Do you like him?’ I ask.
‘I love her.’
‘Oh, it’s a her?’
‘Yes, and her name is Mummy.’ She is delighted with her choice of name. I’d pref
er not to have a mouse of all things named after me, but this isn’t the time to express that.
‘Good, well I’m glad you like it. Why don’t you play with Mummy while I go and make your dinner?’
‘I want to play with Mummy, Mummy,’ she says, putting the mouse back on the bed.
‘OK, well you do that and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’
‘NO, I want to play with you.’
‘With me? Why?’ I ask. I never play with Bonnie. I have always been extremely proud of her ability to play alone. I am not one of those mothers who gets down on her hands and knees and builds Lego towers.
‘Let’s play shops,’ she says, getting a case full of plastic food items and a little cash register.
‘Bonnie, I really do need to get your dinner on …’
‘You can’t cook my dinner if you haven’t been to the shops though, can you?’
‘I guess not.’
I sit on the floor, resting my back against her bed while she arranges things into what she considers to be a good enough shop to satisfy her imagination.
‘OK,’ she says, looking at me like I know what to do next. It takes me a minute to get into character.
‘Oh, right. I’d like a tomato and a cucumber, please?’ I say.
‘No, you want the pasta,’ she says, forcefully.
‘OK, please can I have the pasta and the tomato sauce?’ I say, playing along.
‘NO! You want the pasta and the cheese,’ she says, snatching the fake tomato sauce out of my hand and forcing the plastic cheese into it instead.
‘OK, Bonnie,’ I say, calmly. ‘I’ll have the pasta and cheese please.’ Determined to play nicely.
‘But I want the cheese Mummy,’ she insists, her arms crossing.
‘Bonnie—’
‘NOOOOOO, I WANT THE CHEESE,’ she screams, unreasonably. Going straight to a level eight.
So Lucky Page 15
