The day after my friends had set me their stupid task, I decided to disobey them and email Michael. Enough was enough. I had to know. ‘Thought you’d been clever, confiscating my phone,’ I muttered, as I fired up my laptop. Cretins! Emailing was just as good. In fact, emailing was better. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? An email was a blank canvas, an unlimited space in which I could lay out my plans for being a model girlfriend when Michael took me back! My heart pounded as I scanned the 168 messages in my inbox. ‘Dear Friend, Your Penis is definitely too small,’ I read. Then: ‘Colonic irrigation for only £19.99!’ and ‘Don’t let incontinence spoil your fun.’ A lot of gynaecology and bum stuff; less on the Michael front. And then, among the penis extensions, I found a name that made my heart leap: Jenny Slater. My stomach turned itself inside out. Dearest Fran, I don’t know what to say. I’m so very sorry to hear about you and Michael – I just can’t believe it. We are all devastated. I have absolutely no idea what went wrong but I really hope that you two manage to work it out after this trial separation. If it helps at all, he is in pieces. I just hope to God he sorts himself out over the next three months because you two were made for each other. If you want to meet up for a cup of tea and a hug, I’m totally here for you. I’m huge at the moment but still mobile! Lots of love and big hugs Jen XXXXX Jenny. So perfect, so lovely, so … so mini. I’d always felt like a big fat hairy gorilla next to her. But she’d become a good friend over the last two years. She must be due any day now; the no-doubt-perfect second baby she had made with her perfect husband Dmitri. I read the email again and again, as if it were from Michael himself, hoping desperately that him being ‘in pieces’ meant that he’d changed his mind already. I wondered if my friends would allow me to see her. Fat chance! Well, bugger them. I wanted to see Jenny more than anything else in the world. Through her I could get close to Michael. It was a simple equation. Guiltily, I picked up my phone. ‘Fran! I’m so pleased to hear from you!’ she cried, in her safe, kind, comfortable little voice. I wanted to be her. (Actually, thinking about it, I wanted to be anyone other than me. Even Peter Stringfellow’s girlfriend.) We arranged to meet for lunch on the South Bank at two o’clock. Getting ready, I jangled with nerves, the Michael-shaped hole in my chest suddenly replaced by pumping adrenalin. This was much better than emailing Michael! The allure of an hour with Jenny and the information she could give me about her brother was overwhelming. I’m the crack whore, she’s the crack, I thought, as I stabbed myself in the eye with my mascara wand. Jenny, waiting for me on a sofa in the BFI restaurant, looked nothing like a lump of crack. Her clean, mousy hair was clipped to one side and her face was glowing, even though she was wearing only a dab of lip gloss. She wore a beautiful grey silk maternity dress that covered her well-proportioned bump very stylishly, with a grey cashmere cardigan over the top that must have cost the sum total of everything in my wardrobe. There wasn’t so much as a centimetre of fat on her. I wondered briefly how I’d be in pregnancy – vomiting, bulky, pallid – then cut myself short, remembering that pregnancy was not likely any time soon. ‘Wow, Jenny, you look lovely!’ I said, hugging her awkwardly. ‘Where’s that dress from?’ ‘Dean LaRonda, actually. I’ve been so lucky, Dmitri’s great friends with their PR who’s given me all sorts from their new maternity collection. Lots of nice soft cardigans and stuff, just the sort of thing you want when you’re pregnant!’ she said happily. It was impossible to hate her. Jenny and Michael really were so similar, I thought, as I sat down opposite her. Michael. ‘How is he?’ I blurted out, unable to bear it any longer. She looked at me with such sadness and kindness that the familiar stinging in my eyes started before I had time to leg it. Warm, salty tears fell out of my eyes as I said, ‘Oh, sorry, it’s fine, just, you know …’ She let me cry it out, ordering a tonic water plus a large glass of red for me. As my sobs subsided into snuffling piglet sounds, she rubbed her tummy, wincing slightly. It couldn’t be comfortable hauling yourself across London when you were that pregnant. ‘Franny, my brother is an idiot. I know he’ll come round. If he had an actual reason for it then that’d be different but he’s not talking to anyone. I think we should just assume that he’s gone mad,’ she added firmly. I gulped, trying desperately to control myself. ‘It’s just that, I just really … I miss him so much and I don’t understand what I did but it must be my fault and I feel so wretched and miserable and I … ugh …’ I sobbed. ‘I know,’ she said, rubbing her tummy and shifting in her seat. ‘… and I can’t imagine ever not loving him and not caring about how he is and what he’s doing and …’ ‘Fran …’ ‘… and I don’t understand why he hasn’t contacted me. I mean, I know that’s what we agreed but doesn’t he care?’ ‘Of course he does. In fact, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but … Oh, shit, Fran …’ ‘… and worst of all, worst of all, is imagining what will happen if the three months comes to an end and he decides he doesn’t want me back,’ I wailed dramatically. Then I looked up at her. ‘Hang on, what weren’t you going to tell me?’ But Jenny was clutching her stomach, the other arm braced against the side of the sofa. ‘Fran, I need to go to hospital,’ she said quietly. ‘I just had a mini contraction. They’re expecting complications and they told me to go in as soon as this happened. Can you take me to the Portland? Do you mind?’ So polite, Jenny, even with a baby in her birth canal. With the help of a terrified waiter, I helped her downstairs to the road where we hailed a taxi. ‘The Portland,’ I said, ‘as fast as possible.’ I felt like a bad extra in a bad film. Just as we pulled away, Jenny grabbed my arm and literally roared into my ear, ‘FUUUUCK!’ Then ‘CUUUUUUUNT!’ I tried not to laugh. This was most unlike her. The roar subsided and she panted in my ear, ‘Oh, my God, that was another.’ I stopped feeling amused and started feeling panicked. ‘Don’t worry, Jenny,’ I said unconvincingly. ‘Contractions start hours before the baby’s born, don’t they?’ Jenny’s eyes were shut and she muttered, ‘I think it may happen quickly, Fran. It didn’t take long with Molly so they told me to come as soon as … CUUUUUUUUNT!’ She slammed her back against the seat, face contorted with agony. In the rear-view mirror, the driver’s eyes were filled with pure fear. ‘St Thomas’, I said to him. ‘It’s three minutes away and you don’t have time to crawl across town.’ She began to protest. ‘I’m not a midwife, Jenny, and I’m not delivering this baby. Come on, now, try to keep calm.’ I squeaked as she pulled a clump of my hair out and screamed again. This was awful! What on earth had happened to nice calm labours in birthing pools where women sang songs and did yoga and arts and crafts between contractions? The driver floored it. As I watched Jenny being wheeled out of sight, taking her information about Michael with her, I cursed myself for feeling so angry. What the hell was she about to tell me? I swayed grottily in the corridor outside, still rough as arse from two and a half weeks of being stoned. Jenny had given me her mobile and asked me to call Dmitri. I did so; he said he’d be there within half an hour. And then, as I went to hand her phone back to a nurse, I paused. No. Don’t do it. Calmly, quietly, as if it were perfectly normal to stalk your ex using his sister’s phone, I breezed into her inbox. The first message was from Dmitri; the second from me; the third was from Michael. My finger hovered over the ‘read’ button. Over the years I’d bollocked endless girlfriends for hijacking their boyfriends’ phones but now, standing by the lifts on the sixth floor at St Thomas’, I got it. Nothing would stop me reading whatever it was he had to say, however much it was going to hurt me. I was, after all, the crack whore now. Feeling blood pumping loudly up round my ears I pressed ‘read’: Am with Nellie. We’ve got some lovely new jumpers for you. Hope you’re OK. Speak later X I sank slowly on to a bench and watched a woman being wheeled past by a porter. Outside, it had begun to rain. I stood up and walked over to the window. The London Eye cruised slowly around, unhurried, unbothered by the weather, uninterested in what was happening to me. Michael’s name was still highlight
ed on Jenny’s phone. ‘Call?’ asked a prompt at the bottom of the screen. I shrugged. Why the hell not? Things couldn’t get any worse. He answered almost straight away. ‘Jenben! I thought you were in labour already! Look, I’m going to walk Nellie home and then come straight over … How’s it going? … Jen … ? Jenny? Hello … ?’ Gulls wheeled overhead as I walked along the Thames Path, past the bookstalls under Waterloo Bridge where tourists sheltered from the rain and talked brightly over takeaway coffee. Rain had streamed down my face and neck and was now inside my clothes; small sharp darts of cold on my back and chest that stung my skin. I was freezing and my teeth were chattering but I couldn’t stop walking, on past the Oxo tower and then the Globe theatre, where a smiling Korean couple asked me to take their picture. Nellie. Nellie. Nellie. The rain got harder, hammering directly into my face. The Thames was brown and uncharacteristically angry; it looked swollen and deadly as it flowed fast and silent under London Bridge. Where the hell do suicidal people get the courage to chuck themselves into that? I wondered. (And why aren’t I one of them?) Who in the name of God was Nellie? Had Michael left me for another woman? Was this separation a sabbatical so he could go and knob someone else before popping the question? Or, worse still, had he just left me for her and wimped out of telling me? Surely there was no way. We had lived together; he’d always told me where he was going. I’d have known if there was someone else on the scene. It was just impossible. No, it isn’t, said a voice inside me. It happens all the time. FUCK OFF, I yelled in my mind, but the internal voice was insidiously soft and cruel as I pushed the wet slicks of my hair off my face and walked up the ramp to London Bridge station. The possibility of feeling even more rejected and unlovable than I already did was making me feel dizzy. A few minutes later I was on the Northern Line, imagining a smiling stranger sitting in the waiting room at St Thomas’, her small gloved hand in Michael’s. Chapter Thirteen
‘Who in the hellfire is called Nellie anyway? This name is for an elephant, no? Not a girl. No mozzer has called her daughter Nellie since 1900, Francees. She will be nasty like a badger’s bottom. And nothing you are telling me suggests that Michael is banging viz her.’ Silence. I sat in bed staring at Stefania, who had taken it upon herself to storm into my house again, although this time she’d decided against kicking my door down. Her wild hair was piled on top of her head and her tiny boyish figure perfectly enclosed in an eye-watering leather miniskirt and Take That T-shirt combination. It was Saturday and I had been in bed since I’d got in from the hospital yesterday, back in my tracksuit and working towards becoming human compost. I was drinking brandy and had been imagining Mario Testino taking big, bleak photos of me alone in my bed. Stefania started opening windows. ‘Right, Francees. You have two options. You ask Jenny who zis Nellie elephant is, or you forget about it. Zose are ze only two options, you understand, yes? You do not have ze facts so you cannot sit here in a goulash.’ I sniggered and had another nip of brandy. ‘Stew?’ ‘Whatever ze dish,’ Stefania snapped, ‘you cannot do zat to yourself. Or to me,’ she added, as she got up and started to clean out Duke Ellington’s bowl, which had become a little crusty of late. ‘And stop drinking zat disgusting spirit,’ she added. ‘Do you vant to turn into a steenking drunk?’ Like your mother hung in the air. Duke Ellington shot through the door at high speed and galloped over to Stefania as if she was the last human being left on earth after the apocalypse. He could spot a reliable feeder a mile off, Duke Ellington. She turned back to me. ‘Which are you going to take then, Fran? Option one or two?’ She gave Duke Ellington a late breakfast and he wove round her legs, purring, pretending to be a normal, well-mannered cat. The little scrote. ‘I’ve decided to take option three,’ I said. ‘I’m going to stalk her.’ I opened up my laptop and logged on to Facebook, taking a little tot of brandy as I did so. It was beginning to do the trick. ‘You vill not,’ Stefania barked. ‘Are you out of your mind? Option sree will lead to earthquake and disaster, Francees.’ She removed the brandy from my bedside table but failed to grab my glass in time. ‘Stop it, Stefania,’ I said irritably. I began scouring Michael’s list of friends. There were far too many girls, all posh and sexy and clever. ‘Bunch of hoes,’ I said, under my breath. I continued scrolling down, knowing there definitely hadn’t been a Nellie among his friends a few weeks ago. But there was a Nellie now. Oh, fuck. There she was. Nellie Daniels. Long, shiny brown hair, a black dress and a glass of champagne, laughing at something off camera. A man’s arm lay on her shoulders. Michael’s? I felt sick. ‘Shit. SHIT. Stefania, I’ve found her already. She’s a friend of his on Facebook!’ Stefania strode over. ‘Step away from zis computer,’ she yelled, grabbing it from me. ‘You’re being a foolish penis. She could be anyone! Being friends on myface does not mean that he has seen her naked. You are jumping into conclusions!’ She marched off with my laptop and put it into the oven, for no discernible reason. I stormed off to the toilet, tears of panic rising. I needed her onside. I needed her to understand how frightened I was. I’d thought I’d hit rock bottom already: the possibility of there being an even deeper chasm for me to fall into was making me feel faint. I simply couldn’t cope with Michael having a girlfriend called Nellie Daniels. I thought about his hands roving over her back and her mane of shiny brown hair and nearly puked. In the mirror my face was like a boiled dumpling, all puffy and bloated from crying with the dregs of yesterday’s makeup under my eyes. A cold sore was forming by my mouth. Faced with a choice between Nellie-the-fucking-champagne-girl and myself, I thought I’d probably choose her too. ‘I sink ve should do some yoga,’ Stefania said, when I came back into the sitting room. ‘You are like ze advert for ze Camden Sexual Health Clinic.’ I sat on the sofa and downed a good inch of cognac. ‘Piss off. I don’t want to do yoga. I want to talk about Nellie Daniels.’ Stefania shook her head and turned on the TV. Even though she always behaved as if TV was the enemy of mankind, she often forgot herself and sat absorbed for hours in front of my screen. ‘OK. Ve vatch television. You need to know vhat is happening in the world.’ She’d chosen a bad moment. For there, smiling at his front door with his arm round his Teutonic wife, was Nick. A strap line underneath read, ‘Nick Bennett joins Tory election campaign team.’ A little jolt of fear shot through me and I sat down. This was not good. Not good at all. I glanced uneasily at my phone. ‘I hate zis man! He looks like he has sex viz his hand many times each day.’ I smiled weakly, wishing I could tell her the truth about Nick. But of course I couldn’t. Soon after, Stefania got up and went to her shed to make lunch, issuing a barrage of threats to end my life if I didn’t get into the shower and do something productive with my day. I slouched back to bed and brooded. Seeing Nick’s face again was making me wonder. The day before Michael had dumped me, I’d told him I was going to ask Hugh if he’d consider me for the election-coverage team. Michael had raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Is that a good idea? You’ll be working fifteen hours a day, Fran,’ he said. Duke Ellington stared at him from atop the work surface, licking his paws. ‘I know. But I want to do it, Michael. I’m thirty years old tomorrow, and it’s time I tried my arm with politics. I’ve wanted to do it for ages. I reckon the time’s come – it’s nearly two years since I was made a specialist producer in ents.’ I shifted to the other foot. ‘Fran does Westminster, innit.’ He scratched his head and blinked, reminding me of how he’d looked when I’d first met him. ‘Are you sure it’s right for you?’ ‘You don’t think I’m clever enough, do you?’ I’d blurted out, after a brief pause. For no reason other than a vague need for moral support, I picked up a carrot from the work surface. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’ ‘You’re just trying to stop me making a fool of myself by asking Hugh. You don’t think I can do politics!’ I pointed the carrot at him. Michael looked slightly irritated. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just anticipating what Hugh’s going to say. His first question will be “Have you got any contacts?”’ ‘And I have!’ I crie
d. ‘I’ve got a bloody direct line into the Conservative Party!’ Michael smiled exasperatingly. ‘You think I’m some fluffy little bumstain from entertainment who can’t hold down a job in clever politics! Well, I can! I can, Michael, I know I can.’ I thumped the carrot against the side of my leg, feeling suddenly close to tears. Michael shut his laptop and walked over to stand in front of me. He took the carrot out of my hand and put it on the work surface behind me. ‘Listen, you mad carrot-waving woman, I don’t think you’re fluffy and I definitely don’t think you’re a bumstain. But what I do think is that you’ve been working long hours for months now and you need a break. You need more time for you. And us. I miss you!’ What had I done to deserve this man? I put my arms round his waist. ‘OK. I’ll have a proper think. Maybe you’re right. I can’t remember the last time we just sat around and watched TV.’ He smiled and kissed my forehead. ‘I think we should down tools – laptop and carrot respectively – and go and make use of the last few hours of your twenties,’ he said, leading me out of the kitchen. ‘Stop it,’ I hissed at Duke Ellington, who looked at me with stony disapproval as we passed him. I had emailed Hugh the next morning. I couldn’t not go for it. And just as I’d been about to leave work for my birthday dinner/potential engagement with Michael, Hugh had hauled me into his office. ‘I got your email about the election team,’ he barked, as I closed the door behind me. ‘Fran, if you wanted to join the Millbank lot, why the fuck haven’t you said anything to me? Why the fuck did you wait till the fucking election came along? It’s a big fucking deal – how do I know you won’t fuck up?’ I’d tried not to smile at Hugh’s interview technique. ‘You don’t,’ I replied. ‘But you do know that I haven’t fucked up anything else for you and that I’d work so hard my arse would probably fall off.’ Hugh said nothing. I took a deep breath. ‘What you don’t know is that it’s my thirtieth birthday today and that there could be no greater present than a place on the politics team. It’s why I got into journalism, Hugh. It’s what I want to do. I read about politics, I think about politics, I blog about politics.’ (That last one was a surprise. Did I?) Hugh raised an eyebrow. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about your birthday, Fran. That said, happy birthday. But I could give a fuck about your interest in politics. Who’s going to win this election?’ ‘Cameron.’ ‘I see. And if he does, who are the rising stars of his party?’ Fuck. ‘Well, Nick Bennett is one to watch. He’s been playing an increasingly important role in policy over the last few months.’ Hugh wrote something in his notebook. ‘You think so?’ Shit. Did I? ‘Yes.’ ‘And contacts. You can’t just blaze into Westminster with the duty number for the press office, Fran.’ ‘I know. I’ve got contacts.’ Hugh had glanced vaguely at his BlackBerry, which was making loud popping noises. ‘OK, so suppose I said we have a feature on tomorrow’s bulletin about the rising stars of politics.’ I waited. ‘Fuck that. How about I’m telling you, right here, right now, that we have a feature on tomorrow’s bulletin about the rising stars of politics? I want some of them in the studio. And you say Nick Bennett. Get him in for us. Go.’ What a bastard. ‘OK,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘Give me a few minutes.’ Hugh had roared with laughter. ‘Good fucking bluff, Fran,’ he called. ‘That’s half the fucking job.’ I’d looked at my watch. Michael had been due to collect me from reception half an hour ago. I paused briefly to picture him sitting there on the sofa with his chin deep in one of his scratchy Scottish wool scarves. I wondered what he’d bought me for my birthday and imagined his eyes creasing into a smile as I opened it. A ring? Everyone was convinced he’d propose tonight. Even Mum. I’d buzzed through to Reception and asked them to tell him I’d be out in five minutes. Then I’d picked up my mobile and scrolled down to Nick’s number. I glanced back at Hugh’s office, where for no good reason he was sticking pins into a Plasticine dog. That would be me if I fucked this up. Nick had answered almost immediately. ‘Fran, I really can’t talk. I’m at home. Laura is here.’ ‘Yes. I know, but it’s business. Nick, I need your help. We’d like a rising star from the Tories to be in the studio tomorrow night. I proposed you as one of them. Can you do it?’ I’d heard the cogs of his ego machine beginning to turn. ‘It’d be great exposure,’ I added, wincing. Damn him. ‘OK. I’ll need to involve our press people but I don’t see why not. As you say, I’ve been very prominent of late.’ ‘Oh, my God. Thank you, Nick – thank you so much. I – I really – Look, thank you. I’ll organize a car to come to Portcullis House at about five o’clock. Is that OK?’ ‘Yes. Please confirm the car details via the press office. Don’t ring me again.’ In typical Nick style, he ended the call without recourse to traditional pleasantries such as ‘Goodbye.’ ‘Nick Bennett will be here at five thirty p.m. tomorrow,’ I said, walking back into Hugh’s office. He’d sat up. ‘Are you serious?’ ‘Yes.’ Hugh had chuckled. ‘Fran, you could do with smartening up a bit – those bloody floral jumpsuit things you wear are fucking horrible – but I won’t lie, I like you. And you’re quite right about not letting me down. So I’m going to give you a chance. You can have a month’s trial in the election team, starting on the fifth of January. But if you fuck up, you’re out. That fucking simple. What do you say? Don’t you fucking dare,’ he added, as I forgot myself briefly and ran towards him with open arms. ‘Wow! Good for you,’ Michael had said, when I exploded into Reception. But he’d looked uncomfortable. He’d probably foreseen what had come next: a call from a none-too sober Mum, saying, ‘Frances, I’m rather shocked that you’ve organized this television jaunt with Nick. You of all people should be aware that the better known he becomes, the greater the strain on our relationship.’ Was that it? Had Michael got fed up with the constant drama of going out with the daughter of a politician’s mistress? Surely not. While I was happy to change almost anything if it meant getting him back, I couldn’t do anything about Mum’s relationship. By the time Stefania returned to ensure I wasn’t stalking Nellie, I had got to the bottom of the brandy bottle and was playing Starship very loudly. She stood surveying the scene while, from my cosy spot on the floor, I howled that nothing was going to stop us now. She stood surveying the scene. ‘Right,’ she said, and walked out with my phone. I increased my singing volume, gearing up for the key change, just as she came back in and turned off the music. ‘Oi! Stefania! What the hell are you doing?’ I asked, sitting up. Whoops. Floor was better. I lay down and giggled a bit. ‘Your mozzer is on her way,’ Stefania said stiffly. ‘You are out of ze control.’ She sat on the sofa and put on the TV, petting Duke Ellington. Glad of sane and sober company, he climbed into her lap and sat staring down at me haughtily. I passed out. When I woke up, Mum was tapping me on the head gingerly. ‘Frances? Are you alive, dear?’ ‘Mum!’ I tried to sit up but my head hurt. The clock said 8.16 p.m. What kind of drunken tramp had a hangover at a quarter past eight on a Saturday night? ‘Mum. I saw Nick and Laura sodding Bennett on the news earlier, joining the election team. Did you?’ She nodded. ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Well, darling, I’ve had better times,’ she said. ‘But let’s not worry about me, let’s worry about you. Stefania called me and told me that she found you singing power ballads in your knickers. Is this true?’ ‘Pretty much,’ I admitted. ‘I think Michael’s seeing someone called Nellie Daniels. You and I are as fucked as each other now, right?’ She patted down her hair as she sat on the sofa above me. ‘It’s not meant to be like that, though, Frances,’ she said. ‘I’m meant to look after you, not the other way round.’ There was a silence. I knew Mum had never wanted to stop being my mum. But we both knew she was right. Our roles had been reversed a very long time ago. ‘Mum, I think we should open a bottle of wine,’ I said, getting up. She looked guilty. ‘That’s a great idea,’ she whispered, just in case Stefania could hear. Stefania couldn’t hear, but she heard later on when Starship went back on and Mum and I started duetting. Her furious face, as she showed Mum out of my flat and into a waiting taxi, was somet
hing I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. ‘Oops … Stefania’s cross,’ I said to Duke Ellington. His enormous haughty yellow eyes stared, unblinking, into my face, and then he stalked delicately off to my bedroom. Dave texted just as I passed out drunk for the second time in one day: If you’re not back at work on Monday I’m calling the police. Come back, kid, we’ll look after you. Chapter Fourteen
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