by Roxy Jacenko
My motto when it comes to business is ‘consider, assess, action’. Well, I’d considered my options and made my decision. By the end of the day, Fifi’s photograph had been added to The Talent Hive’s website, with a breakdown of her fees for sponsored posts and public appearances. If I was going to launch my daughter’s brand I would do it properly.
When most toddlers pout it’s a temper tantrum – when Fifi pouts it gets hundreds of Instagram likes. With a bevy of brands at her disposal, a wardrobe coveted by fashionistas and a razor-sharp wit, Fifi’s digital presence is irresistible. Fifi has an uncanny ability to elevate a brand simply by association and knows how to mix budget and luxury products with ease – who else wears Gucci sandals one day and Crocs the next? She’s the voice of a generation.
And so I launched my daughter’s career – before she was even old enough to pronounce the words ‘alter ego’. From that moment on, she wasn’t just Fifi Lewis – she was the ‘pint-sized Instagrammer’ and the ‘two-year-old tastemaker’.
Umm . . . I may have a created a monster.
8
So it turned out all I needed to do to get my husband’s attention was ‘sell out’ our daughter. Well, that was what my critics accused me of. Michael hadn’t even noticed that I’d added Fifi to The Talent Hive’s website, until the Australian Women’s Weekly published a story on Fifi. They dubbed her the ‘millionaire Insta-tot’ and printed her rate card, showing that she charged a minimum of $200 for a sponsored post.
I then received a call from Freya Harrison, an ex-magazine editor turned mummy blogger, who could give Perez Hilton a run for his money when it came to cattiness. ‘Jazzy Lou, darling, we’re writing an article on Fifi. All very positive, I promise. We just want to talk about how she’s inheriting your business sense.’
She was clearly going to write the article whether I contributed or not, so I decided I might as well give my side of the story. I ran my comments past my lawyer before sending them to Freya, just to get a second opinion. ‘Yes, Fifi does work with various brands specific to children, some of which pay for her services,’ I wrote. ‘How do I respond to criticism? Each to their own. I don’t judge other mothers on how they choose to raise their children, and I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business how I raise my own.’
I thought I made a fair and convincing argument, and that the piece would be positive – but I was thrown to the wolves. I should know, after a decade in my profession, never to read the comments section under an article when it’s a personal story about me (and now my daughter). The mummy army had not reacted kindly to me raising an Insta-tot, and had taken to their keyboards in protest:
Posted by: MummaJones
This is so very sad and disturbing. Seriously, what the f*ck is the world coming to? How can we say ‘everyone has a right to raise their child as they see fit’? Okay, so child abuse is okay, is it? Everybody should have a choice about whether or not to put their life on social media. Poor Fifi doesn’t. She is two years old and doesn’t even understand what Instagram is. Money and fame can’t buy you happiness – or, in Jasmine’s case, class! When you give a child everything – money, attention, fame – there is nothing left to work towards. I think Jasmine will only really understand when she has the next Lindsay Lohan on her hands.
Posted by: Mydaughterskeeper
How does she have an account when she is under 13 years old? It makes a mockery of all the efforts we go to in order to protect children’s privacy. When we openly ignore rules we teach our children bad habits. It’s no wonder respect is fast diminishing in our society with parenting like yours. It’s all very amusing now I’m sure, but this profile will be around forever, and could cause your daughter embarrassment in the future. When you start making money from it you’re exploiting your toddler, no matter how innocent your intentions.
Posted by: Stayathomer
Two words: pure narcissism! This sad excuse for a mother needs to take a good, hard look at herself.
I read this stream of bitchy comments while waiting in my office for my bank manager to arrive. I wanted to set up a new savings account for Fifi, who was now a tax-paying sole trader with a steady stream of income. My daughter, the Insta-superstar, was sitting at my boardroom table drawing a picture of a white cat wearing black sunglasses. She had been begging for a kitten, ever since she saw Karl Lagerfeld’s cat Choupette. I didn’t think the Four Seasons would be that accommodating.
How could people call me a bad mother when in every single photograph of Fifi she was grinning from ear to ear? If her social media career caused her any pain, unhappiness or discomfort I’d shut it down in a second. She genuinely loved it – and it was a great mother–daughter bonding activity.
While I was contemplating my parenting approach, my phone rang. It was Michael. This was a novelty during the working day as he only usually called at 9 pm to say goodnight to Fifi. When I saw his number I kicked my office door closed with my foot, and flicked the phone onto speaker so that Fifi could hear her daddy.
I realised putting Michael on speaker was a bad move when I heard the tone of his voice. ‘Jazzy Lou, what the HELL is going on? I’ve got reporters calling my office asking if I’m exploiting Fifi for CHILD LABOUR!’
Oh, come on, people, I wanted to scream, are you MAD? This was now getting ridiculous. Although the publicist in me was pretty impressed that Fifi could get so much attention. Better to be talked about than not . . .
When I didn’t answer Michael straight away, he must have taken my silence for a guilty conscience. ‘Where are you, Jazzy Lou?’ he asked. ‘Actually, that’s a stupid question. I bet you’re at the office, aren’t you? Surprise, surprise. Look, stay there. I’m coming to see you and Fifi. We need to talk face to face.’
Within ten minutes my husband was marching through the door of the Queen Bee office, straight past Lulu who was sitting at reception surrounded by two hundred huge blow-up lilos that we were using for a marketing stunt. I was surprised – and slightly annoyed – by Michael’s swiftness in getting here. It proved how easily he could make time for us, even at midday on a Wednesday, when he really wanted to.
At the sight of her daddy, Fifi leaped out of her chair and ran to him. It was actually a very sweet moment – father and daughter reunited. By coincidence, they even had on vaguely matching outfits, as I’d dressed Fifi that morning in a Ralph Lauren striped t-shirt and khaki shorts, which were almost identical to Michael’s (it must have been a casual day in his office). They looked like the cutest odd couple, standing side by side. Hmm, this probably wasn’t an appropriate time to ask for a his-and-hers photo for Instagram, was it?
Instead, I went straight on the defensive. ‘Look, Michael, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know that it would escalate. The opportunity just arose. Let me explain and you’ll agree that I made the right decision, I’m sure.’
I had a whole speech ready to go, but Michael held his hand up to silence me. ‘Let’s not talk about it in the office, Jasmine,’ he replied. ‘Now I’m here, I may as well take you two out for lunch. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten. Fifi, where would you like to go?’
Of course this meant we ended up at McDonald’s. (So much for her mature palate. All a kid ever really wants is a Happy Meal.) As we sat in a booth with sticky plastic seats, I tried to avoid getting grease from the table on the sleeve of my Céline shift dress. Gah, this was dry-clean only. I also tried not to flinch every time Fifi bit into a chicken nugget, deep-fried in god knows what. Was she too young to put on a juice cleanse? Only joking! I actually had a massive craving for an M&M McFlurry. Perhaps I could order one ‘for Fifi’ and then help her to finish it. Isn’t the only good thing about a lovers’ tiff the fact that you have an excuse to comfort eat?
The thing you should know about Michael and me is that we have very different parenting styles. He has a specific – and sometimes very old-fashioned – idea of what a family unit should look like. The child is the centre of the universe, the father is the ma
in breadwinner, and the mother dotes on both of them. You may wonder, then, what he was doing with me. I’m not offended if you’re thinking that – I asked myself the same question, often.
Michael hid his traditionalism while we were dating – it only really came to light after our honeymoon when we were settling into ‘matrimonial bliss’. Now that I had a ring on my finger, it seemed he expected his wife (eugh, even that word makes me squirm) to manage the household, do his washing and press his trousers. Despite the fact that I’d never once cooked him a meal, he still thought it was my responsibility to feed him, and clearly hoped that one day I’d morph into Nigella Lawson . . . or Sophie Dahl after she ditched being skinny to write a cookbook. He expected me to know what was for dinner even before breakfast. Umm, whatever you want from the menu at Beppi’s Italian. My culinary skills extend to placing a takeaway order or booking a table for three.
Michael had a hands-off approach to household management, which was fine with me, as long as he didn’t expect me to be hands-on either. We both had stressful careers, therefore neither of us should have to cook or clean, but he still thought it was my duty. Hah! I don’t even boil a kettle. Why would I when there’s a cafe on every corner?
I couldn’t really blame Michael for his outdated opinions, as he was only reflecting the way he was brought up. His dad worked in advertising and his mum was a housewife. It was like a scenario straight out of Mad Men, with an abundance of whiskey and casual sexism.
While I moved out of my parents’ house when I was seventeen, desperate for independence, Michael lived at home until he was twenty-four. What motivation did he really have to flee the nest when he could live rent-free in a six-bedroom house in Watsons Bay, with a mother whose sole purpose in life was picking up after the men in her family?
I understand it is a generational thing because my mother did the same, but then she had a midlife crisis three years ago and almost left my father. ‘What do I have to show for my life?’ she’d pleaded to him. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime picking up after other people. I need to find myself.’ Instead of leaving him, Mum took up a range of new hobbies, including pottery and sky diving. I’d learned from her mistakes and refused to be a doormat for Michael’s polished Gucci brogues.
But Michael’s mother had never rebelled. In fact, she seemed to think being a mother was the ultimate reward, and that her grown-up son was the ultimate trophy. That’s the only example of a family dynamic that Michael’s ever had. He wasn’t familiar with the idea of a wife and mother who ran her own multimillion-dollar business, a wife and mother who had hustled morning, noon and night for every cent she’d earned and wasn’t about to go down quietly.
When Michael had walked into my office that afternoon, I’d been about to grovel for forgiveness. I even considered offering to delete Fifi’s account and remove her from The Talent Hive’s books, but the drive to the fast-food restaurant had given me time to think. I wasn’t going to apologise for my actions. Okay, maybe I should have told Michael what I was doing, but I had tried to call him . . . once.
So, rather than apologise, I tried to appeal to his business brain. ‘Michael, don’t be angry. It’s a smart business opportunity. What mother doesn’t spend all day taking photos of her kids? We’re just fortunate that for Fifi it can have a profitable component. I’d be a bad parent – and a bad businesswoman – if I didn’t make the most of it.’
My better half opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jasmine. I’m not angry,’ he muttered, looking exhausted. ‘I’m just disappointed that I seem to be the last one to know about Fifi’s new profession. Do you know how embarrassing it is when a reporter knows more about my daughter’s life than I do? We’re meant to be a team. I’m meant to be her father.’
His iPhone was lying on the table and I noticed that his screensaver was a photo of the three of us, taken at Disneyland during a holiday to Paris. It had been a pre-honeymoon honeymoon, about six weeks before we got married. We’re all wearing Minnie Mouse ears and Fifi is sitting on Michael’s shoulder, clutching his hair. I remember I’d freaked out that morning because the theme park didn’t have phone reception, but it had been a blessing in disguise. In the photograph I look relaxed and happy. I remember I’d even eaten a cheese-laden burrito for lunch (well, half a burrito, let’s not go overboard).
I picked up Michael’s phone and smiled at the photograph. ‘Oh my god, do you remember how terrified Fifi was of Donald Duck?’ I asked. ‘I think she was just offended by his hat, to be honest. Oh, Michael, when did we stop having fun? When did we stop laughing like this?’
Do you ever feel so tired that it’s just too much effort to be happy? I spent so much of my day with a fake smile plastered on my face that by the time I got home to my husband I was totally out of cheer. The main factor to blame for our breakup (hang on, brain, don’t get ahead of yourself ) was the nature of the modern world. I can count on one hand my friends’ relationships which have stood the test of time. Every week, marriages seemed to be busting up around us, as romance took second place to work commitments, troublesome kids and tax bills.
As I wallowed for a moment in self-pity, Michael reached out and held my hand across the table. I realised it had been weeks (eight, even nine?) since we’d actually had any physical contact. Sensing that her parents were having a moment, Fifi placed both her hands on top of ours, as though we were a sports team about to enter an arena.
Unusually for me, I felt tears prickle my eyes. I do not cry unless it’s a life or death situation (such as when a cup of coffee was spilled down my Vera Wang wedding dress ten minutes before I walked down the aisle). Yet I suddenly remembered how nice it was to be part of a family unit; a trio who pulled together, rather than a lone operator.
‘Michael,’ I said shyly, ‘why don’t you stay at the Four Seasons with us tonight? I’d really like you to stay over.’
I was already concocting a plan. If I cancelled my morning meeting with the bigwigs at Westfield Shopping Centre, asked Anya to attend the Coles fashion shoot in my place, and convinced Lulu to chaperone Savannah Jagger to the Cosmo magazine bloggers breakfast, I’d have some time free. We could have a lie-in . . . until at least 9 am. It was unheard of for me to delegate my responsibilities, but maybe it was time I put my husband’s needs first . . . or at least equally. We could order the hotel’s signature breakfast in bed (coconut bircher muesli and avocado smashed eggs) and I could finally get around to testing out the spa bath . . .
Then I realised that Michael was looking awkward. ‘I’d love to, Jazzy Lou, really I would,’ he said, ‘but I’m flying out to New York on the red eye this evening. That’s why I could take this afternoon off to see you. I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll be back in a week or so.’
A week or so? That sounded alarmingly open-ended. And he had the gall to accuse me of not keeping him up to date on my life developments. I might not tell him about every sniff, cough or business deal I made, but I would always tell my husband if I was planning on leaving the country.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ I responded angrily. ‘What if I had to go away on a business trip this week too?
Who would look after Fifi? Do you just expect me to take the brunt of the childcare? Is this why you wanted to stay at the house while we moved out, so you could act like a bachelor? Out of sight, out of mind!’
I knew my voice was getting louder and that if there was one thing Michael hated it was couples who aired their dirty laundry in public. But as my Bees will testify, I tend to shout first and ask questions later. Why do you think a gossip columnist had once nicknamed me the ‘perfumed steamroller’?
It may not be a good thing, but Fifi is used to raised voices, and was now once again engrossed in her French fries. She only looked up when Michael screeched his chair back, rising to his feet.
‘I’m not going to sit here and argue with you, Jasmine. I was going to tell you – I did just tell you. I don’t need to ask your
permission; I’m not one of your bloody employees. I just wanted to meet up today so we could regroup and check in.’
Regroup? Check in? The problem with having two people in a relationship who are businesspeople is that we both find it hard not to speak in corporate jargon. What about missing me, wanting me? What about sweeping me off my feet, snogging my face off in the middle of a public courtyard? I may have been watching too many rom-coms. But, still, a girl should feel special.
I glued a glare to my face as Michael looked at his watch. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ll send you an email when I land to let you know I got there safely.’ We had driven to lunch from my office in separate cars, so we didn’t even have the drive back to make peace.
He kissed me on the top of the head, then did the same to Fifi, who put on her ‘not bothered’ game face – and then started crying the moment her daddy was out of sight, naturally.
9
My first thought when I heard rustling in the bushes outside the Queen Bee office that morning was ‘wild animal’. Paranoid? Probably! But I had been at work since 5.30 am writing a press release for I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! (the reality TV show had just signed up Foxy as their next series’ totty) and I had snakes and spiders on the brain.
It wasn’t only tiredness making my brain foggy. After my argument with Michael yesterday, when Fifi had fallen asleep in my double bed I’d had a little ‘party for one’ in my hotel room. It wasn’t my fault . . . really. I blame freaking room service.
