by Lauren Sams
Week 28
Just when I should have been focusing on making Jolie’s next issue more spectacular than Michael Fassbender’s penis, I had found a new, far less useful obsession.
The potent combination of being pregnant and close to fired had spurred something of a fashion crisis in me. Suddenly it seemed imperative to look as cool and youthful as possible. I had ditched my monochrome wardrobe, with its age-appropriate silk pants and prohibitively expensive Equipment shirts (seriously, why did they cost $300? It made no sense). In their place were colours so bright they’d give Rihanna a headache and skirts so high they were practically an invitation for a trip up Beaver Creek. I was trying to say, ‘Look at me! I’m still here!’ but what came across was ‘Look at me! My grasp on dignity has gone from loose to non-existent!’
I was worried about everything. Mostly, though, I was worried about not being worried enough. I’d taken to hate-reading Ellie’s copy of Expecting Love, but instead of making me feel superior because I would never take any of the author’s batshit crazy advice, it made me worried that I’d never be able to do this properly. ‘This’ being ‘raising a baby who will not turn out to be a sociopath’. I certainly wasn’t capable while I was wearing Tiffany-blue chevron-print short-shorts, at any rate.
Reading it did explain a lot about Ellie, though.
Babysitters
Having a trusted relative or friend look after your child while you and your partner enjoy a well-deserved break is a wonderful way to keep your romance alive and recoup a little sanity. It can take time, however, to untether yourself from your darling baby, and of course that is completely understandable. After all, who is better at looking after your baby than you? I recommend introducing babysitters when your child is around 14 or 15 years old. Some parents will feel more comfortable with this than others, but it is important to never leave your child with anyone but you, your partner or the educators of the Independent School System until they have reached double digits – at the very least. Children experience separation anxiety for the first twenty-one years of their lives – and often upwards of this – so it is paramount that they know Mummy and Daddy are always there for them.
When you feel you and your child are both ready to introduce a babysitter, do so slowly. Children do not adapt well to sudden change and will need time to adjust to a new caregiver. Begin by inviting the babysitter – ideally, a grandparent with seven to ten years’ babysitting experience – over for a supervised play-date with your child. Organise an activity – cello practice, for example, or planting organic vegetables – and include the babysitter as much as possible. After half an hour, slowly and quietly back out of the room until your child and the babysitter are left on their own. If you have a baby monitor (and I highly recommend you use one – the Panoptico Watch My Baby video monitor is available on my website for $449), set it up to watch your child and babysitter interact. Take notes if necessary, and after the two have finished their play-date (either at the specified time or as soon as your child calls out for you), take the babysitter aside and offer constructive feedback.
When the big day arrives for your babysitter to take on the heady responsibility of minding your child unsupervised for the first time, I suggest you return home within three hours of leaving. Your child needs to know he can count on you. Remember: scientists have found that after three hours, the brain sends a message to the heart, telling it that it is no longer loved.
I flicked to an earlier section.
Naming your child
What an immense responsibility it is to name a child. With one or two words, you can decide a child’s fate in this big, bad world. Let’s face it: nobody named Brianna has ever become prime minister, and a little boy named Jaxxx’hon is unlikely to grow up to become CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
No doubt you already have some idea what you’d like to name your baby – perhaps you even have a shortlist (I highly recommend you use one – the List Pad Pro is available on my website for $11.99).
With these shortlisted names in mind, I recommend you ask yourself the following questions to filter the Krystals from the Rubys. Apple, Plum and Clementine are acceptable fruit names. That is all.
Is the name shared with that of a recently born celebrity baby, or the protagonist of a successful literary franchise? Well played. Proceed without caution.
Have you imbued the name with new and inventive spelling? Tread carefully here. For every Cate (as in Blanchett), there are a thousand Jodhis and Aydans. Which is to say, occasionally this can work, but most of the time you are setting your child up for a lifetime of spelling lessons.
Is the name derived from the ancient Greeks or Romans? Top marks to you.
Above all, the most important thing to consider when naming your baby is his or her future. Catherine Middleton became the Duchess of Cambridge not because of her shiny princess mane but because her name was not Jemma or Amber. Keep this in mind always.
I tried to push silly Gemma Knight’s words from my brain, but she had got to me, just as she had to every other expectant mother who’d read her book, I suspected.
I felt like time was running out – in my job, in my womb – like I needed to be as young and fun and cool as I could until D-Day arrived. Well, B-Day.
And that’s how I lost my job wearing a neon green bodycon dress and pink polka-dot pumps.
‘How about: “Let’s be social”?’ Dom suggested, while simultaneously testing swatches of lipstick on the back of her hand. Dom was constantly pressed for time; she’d just flown back from a spa retreat in Byron, and tomorrow she was off to New York for Fashion Week. It was a miracle I ever saw her in the office. While the rest of us were handling the cutbacks as best we could, Dom was swanning around at the expense of the big beauty companies. Standard beauty editor practice.
‘No,’ Lucy replied. ‘We already are social – and so are they. It won’t make any sense.’
We were putting the finishing touches on the social media issue – the big fortieth birthday special – and it was near killing me. Somehow, I’d been bullied into approving a cover model I knew next to nothing about – who ran a freaking blog called We the Sheeple, for Christ’s sake – running stories that were the dictionary definition of silly and unimportant (‘What does your Insta handle say about you?’), and trying to think of a coverline that perfectly summed up Jolie’s attitude to social media – without really knowing what that was.
‘What about a play on Facebook or Instagram?’ Fran asked. ‘A pun?’
‘Like Insta-glam?’ said Dom.
Lucy shook her head. ‘It’s been done before. Also, it still makes no sense. Guys, we need something that shows the reader how we feel about this new age, not the kind of glib coverline we run every month.’
‘Excuse me?’ Had I really just heard that?
Lucy’s cheeks flushed a dark red. ‘Oh, you know what I mean, George.’
I stared at her. ‘Not really, no.’
She stared at the notebook in her lap and I reluctantly gave her the benefit of the doubt, even though I had no doubt she was deliberately acting like a toddler. No, worse than a toddler – Lucas would have at least said sorry.
‘Keep going, then, guys. We’re not there yet,’ I said.
‘I like the idea of playing with the words too,’ said Fran. ‘“All a-twitter”, something like that?’
Lucy rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes. ‘No, Fran.’
I let my mouth hang open. ‘Lucy, that’s enough. I am quite capable of leading this meeting.’
She sniggered.
I repeat: she sniggered. All doubt, every trace of it, vanished, never to be seen again.
‘Is there a problem, Lucy?’
She paused.
‘I think its best if this is a closed-door discussion.’
Dom raised her perfect, perfect eyebrows, put the lipstick down and packed her things away. She motioned to Fran and the two of them left, closing the door behind them.
&nb
sp; As they filed out, I motioned for Lucy to join me at my desk.
I could hardly feel my face; it was like it had turned to stone.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
I tried to call on management techniques I’d learnt at a fairly terrible seminar two years ago, when I’d first got the job. I was sure there was some acronym I should be using here to discipline Lucy, but bugger if I knew what it was.
A few months ago – maybe even a few minutes ago – Lucy would have been embarrassed to have this conversation with me. But there was no blushing now, no fidgeting. ‘We’ve got to stop phoning things in like this.’
‘Excuse me?’
She cleared her throat. ‘We seem to be settling for work that’s – that’s not perfect. Like this coverline. It’s not right and you’re not pushing the girls. And … well, I could go on. And George, that’s why we’re not doing very well.’
It was as if a gunshot had gone off in the room.
Everything was happening in slow motion, including my reaction.
I was silent for a minute before I realised that I needed to tell Lucy to back the fuck off.
‘Really, Lucy?’ I heard my voice become tight and high. ‘And what would you do differently?
Lucy’s eyes shifted and finally settled on me. ‘Look, George, I have a lot of respect for you – I mean, you’re one of the great old-school editors. But I sit in these meetings and I can’t believe some of the stuff I hear. I’ve been trying to say it for a while now – more politely than this, I guess – but, the thing is: you just don’t get it.’
I felt that adrenaline rush of fear and anger, that wave of nervous energy wash through me, like I’d had one too many coffees. I tried to steady myself, tried not to overreact, tried to keep it professional. All I could hear was ‘old-school’. A very awful part of me wanted to slap Lucy for being a little brat. But I didn’t do that. That would be unprofessional.
‘You’re fired.’
Lucy looked down. And started laughing.
‘You can’t fire me. Do you even know what’s going on?’
I felt my brow furrow. Fuck. Something was going on? That wasn’t good.
My breathing quickened, my mind raced. I had a feeling I was about to be Gillard-ed.
Lucy, meanwhile, looked cool as Pharrell. She sat back against her chair, as if I hadn’t said the word ‘fired’ at all, as if nothing and nobody could touch her.
‘Meg and I have been having meetings, George. She should be the one to tell you this, not me, but … she’s making me editor-in-chief.’
My hand reached for my phone, automatically dialling Meg’s extension. I felt my chest pound, my stomach begin to flip. It couldn’t be true. Meg would never do that. She picked up on the fourth ring. The fourth ring? Always a bad sign.
‘George,’ she said evenly. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, not so great, to be honest. Lucy’s in here and … it seems like we need to have a chat.’
‘Ah, now, George, the thing with Lucy is –’
‘So it’s true?’
Meg paused. ‘Yes, pet. It’s just smart business. We need a face who can take us into the next age, the next generation. Someone who knows about all this digital stuff that you hate. It’s a good thing, George. Lucy will free up your time, and you’ll still have a lot of control.’
‘So Lucy will be my boss?’
A pause. ‘Yes.’
Remember when you were little, and you did something wrong, but you didn’t know quite how wrong it was until your parents told you what the punishment was? And the punishment seemed so much worse than the crime, and it was only then that you realised, ‘OK, I guess pegging my cousin to the washing line and sending him off for a spin is pretty dangerous’? That’s how I felt. The idea of Lucy being promoted above me had never, ever entered my mind. My crime had only been not caring about the stupid internet and its stupid cat videos, and this was my punishment? It hardly seemed worth it.
‘No thank you, Meg.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘No thank you. I’m resigning. Effective immediately.’
‘Oh, George, there’s no need for that. I really think that if you take some time to think this through, you’ll see that it’s a very good thing. It’ll help you, in the long run.’
It wouldn’t be a good thing. There wouldn’t be a long run. I knew that. I knew that, within days, 22-year-old Lucy would be annexing my office and bossing me around and undermining me in front of my staff and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.
‘No, Meg. It’s not a good thing. I quit. Thanks for everything.’ I hung up before she could say anything else.
I meant it. Meg had been my mentor – she’d taught me what a story spike was and how to get the most from an interview and why you put your most important coverline in the top left corner. But it was over. I wasn’t up for this anymore.
‘George –’ Lucy began.
I held up my hand.
‘Save it.’ I was barely holding back tears – if she started telling me how much I’d be missed or some other bullshit like that, I wouldn’t be able to keep it together. I’d just lost my job; what more did she want from me – a Bachelor-style farewell, complete with mental breakdown?
I gathered a few vitals – my handbag, the bag of freckles in my second drawer, a framed photo of the team at last year’s Woman of the Year Awards – and sent Fran a quick email, asking her to courier all my back issues to Ellie’s. Fuck it. The company could pay for the shipping.
I wasn’t sure what to say to the team. Maybe it would be better if I walked out like I was going to lunch – no big deal – and wrote them all farewell cards later. But then I thought of all the years I’d worked at Jolie, all the days and nights I’d spent in this office, trying to craft the perfect sell, or tease an interview out of a reluctant star while his publicist watched like a protective hawk, or figure out how to save a story when the case study pulled out. I thought of all the hours Katie and I had spent agonising over covers, asking ourselves over and over, ‘Is this right? Can we make it better?’ I looked out to the art department, to the wall of layouts for the next issue. It had all been for nothing, but at least I could say goodbye to the team. I owed them that.
I wouldn’t walk out like an embarrassed wife who’d just found out she’d been cheated on. Even though that’s pretty much what had happened.
‘Guys?’ I said, walking out to the art department. ‘We need to talk.’
They all emerged from their desks, wanting to know what the hell had gone on after Lucy and I had closed the door during the meeting.
‘I’m leaving, guys. You’ll hear the full story in due course, but, uh – I’m leaving.’ I blinked away tears as the team gave a collective gasp. I ploughed on, wanting to make this as short as possible. ‘I think you guys are the best mag team out there and it’s been a dream to work with all of you. But, um, I’m off to – to other things. Thanks for all your hard work.’ I sighed. It was over.
As I turned to leave, Katie hugged me first, then Dom and Jen and Fran and the rest.
Lucy was still in my office.
Sorry – her office.
24
Week 30
‘First of all, we’re going to need a large basket of the house-baked bread,’ Nina said to the waitress. ‘And don’t just bring, like, one tiny ramekin of butter. And don’t bring butter that can’t be spread; it should be room temperature.’
The waitress nodded, scribbling down Nina’s instructions and waiting for more.
‘Then I’ll have the steak frites – medium rare, sauce on the side – and my friend here will have the mushroom risotto. The main size, not the entrée.’
She paused, then looked at me. ‘What do you want to drink?’
‘Jack Daniel’s?’
‘She’ll have a mineral water. A big one.’
After the waitress had said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ to Nina and scurried away like a mouse who’d seen its future as
cat bait, Nina started bossing me around.
‘Look, I still think the best stuff is online, but let’s at least try David Jones,’ she said.
I nodded, thinking of my last encounter there. Maybe I’d see Grace again.
‘OK.’
‘And I need something to wear to the reunion, too, so that’s two birds, one store.’
‘What are you going to wear?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Something to show off my amazing, child-free body, I suppose.’ She said it in the sort of theatrical, self-deprecating way she’d used for all mentions of pregnancy and babies since we’d started speaking again. It may have made Nina feel better to poke fun at her infertility – though, honestly, I highly doubted it – but it made me feel guilty all over again. I couldn’t join in the ‘fun’, such as it was – it was too strange. I knew it was a protective mechanism, something to harden her heart against past and future beatings, but I suspected Nina might also enjoy – even if only a little, and even if it was just subconsciously – the idea that it made me uncomfortable. We had been hanging out again, and it was such a relief to be Nina’s friend again. But we still hadn’t really talked about the fact that I was pregnant. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up, but then I wondered if that was selfish, if I shouldn’t put the burden of talking about it on Neen. In the end, I couldn’t decide, so I’d said nothing up to this point. We had made our peace but I was still pregnant. The playing field was still uneven in Nina’s eyes.
‘Surely you can just borrow something from Jill?’ I teased. ‘How’s her nose job going, anyway?’
Nina shook her head. ‘Oh, the nose job is over. She sent me a picture – it looks fine. Not all that different from her original nose, if you ask me. But apparently it really traumatised her, so she’s gone to Ibiza to relax and unwind.’ Nina rolled her eyes.
‘She’s gone to Ibiza to relax? How is Ibiza at all relaxing?’
Nina shrugged. ‘No idea. My dad’s paying for the whole thing, though. Can you believe it? Thirty years old and she’s still being bankrolled by her father.’
