There's More to Life Than Cupcakes

by Poppy Dolan

  Joe: Are you working some kind of Oprah angle here? I’m not going to cry and say we only ever ate Angel Delight after my Dad left and the smell of curried goat makes me sad inside.

  Me: No, no no! Not what I was going for. At all. I wouldn’t do that to you. Just a bit of background to how you feel about food generally. Honest. So how about your first baking attempts, any terrible mistakes there?

  Joe. I did once try fairy cakes for my niece’s birthday, but forgot the eggs. It was like horrible chewy tiny pancakes in pink cases. Put shitloads of icing on them and she still ate three. Bless her little greedy chops. She gets that from Leanne, her mum—’

  [a muffled sound, then a pause]

  Joe: Crap, sorry, Ellie. They need me in a meeting for some reason. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back, yeah?

  Me: ‘Course. Speak to you soon. This has been great. So useful. Bye then!

  And he’s gone. And the guilt I felt earlier about calling him on work time has only got that little bit deeper and stickier as it was such silly, flirty fun. But still, silliness and flirtiness that I will turn into a great feature for Crumbs and will hopefully be the start of a whole big link-up with Best Dishes. I’ve left messages with a few BBC PRs so far, to see what else we could do. Now I’ve interviewed Joe, maybe I could take it up a notch and interview the host? Oh God, please let it be Mel and Sue. If I meet them I will die happy.

  Joe was a peach to do this. He’s going to make some woman very happy one day, what with the good sense of humour, abs and baking skills. I mean, looking the way he does and being a charmer, he probably won’t settle down until he’s forty-three and finds a twenty-one-year-old model to make super cute babies with, but still. She’ll be a very lucky model.

  I’m making some notes to myself about how to progress the Best Dishes project. No need to run back to the office, Gina will only be poised to pounce and chase me up for a decision on her Cow & Gate thing. I haven’t read it still and she is barely disguising her annoyance by rearranging the stationery supplies so I can’t ever find my stapler.

  My phone starts ringing. It’s a London number – maybe Joe is ringing back on his work line

  ‘Hello, trouble.’

  ‘Um, hello. Is that Ellie Redford?’ The female, Home Counties voice that answers is probably not Joe.

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘Oh hi. It’s Zoe from Best Dishes here. I’m not sure if you remember me?’

  I wrack my brains. One of the PRs may have been called Zoe, I can’t remember. But it’s more professional to pretend I do.

  ‘Of course! Very excited about the show.’

  Her tone instantly brightens. ‘Oh that’s great, because we didn’t hear back from you after we sent out the email and we want to arrange your audition really soon.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  I’m blinking madly. What’s going on?

  ‘Audition?’

  ‘Yes. You gave us your details at the baking expo and we followed up with an email, as we really want you to try out for the show. We all thought you had … something. I hope you’re feeling OK these days?’

  Bubbles of memory are bursting in front of me eyes – that tent at Earl’s Court, Paul Hollywood, the health and safety form … Did I manage to sign up for a TV show without realising?

  I can’t go on telly.

  Can I?

  I look down into my lap at the notes headed ‘Crumbs/Best Dishes work’. It would mean I could make the feature so much bigger, with first-hand insider info. It would be amazing exposure for the magazine – I could really raise our profile and hopefully our revenue. It would make me look pretty darn Creative to Sam. Though I would most likely make a tit of myself on telly, with everyone watching. Right now I’d take that over being an unemployed tit in six months’ time.

  I realise I’ve left lovely Zoe dangling in silence.

  ‘So when’s the audition?’

  Oh God, I might be on telly. Baking! I know who should hear this first.

  ‘Hey Ellie. You again.’

  ‘Hey, Joe. Yup, me. Anyway, I signed myself up for Best Dishes too. By mistake. Shit.’

  ‘No way! That’s great, we can hang out together. Hang on, how did you not know you’d signed yourself up? They had that big stand at the show, a big queue of women … and very manly men, too, and you had to sign a mad complicated release. Did you sleepwalk it or something?’

  ‘Er, sort of!’ I swallow down a burst of manic laughter. ‘It’s good though, isn’t it? I mean, I won’t make a berk out of myself? I don’t want anyone looking at me like we look at Mr Berry.’

  ‘Never. And what about “Don’t be a wuss, you’ll regret it.” Besides, you are damn straight the best baker I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Really?’ I cross my legs and lean back into my armchair.

  ‘Yeah, I even thought at first that you were a sneaky expert coming into our class to show us all up, or spy on us or something—’

  The manic cat-lady laugh escapes me. ‘Hahahahaha. Stupid!’

  ‘Well, you are an amazing natural, you have to admit it. And where’s the ball-busting Ellie gone? If you got on the show, just imagine what a great feature that would be! Insider reporting, backstage gossip, a sneak peek before anyone else.’

  ‘I suppose. But there’s so much going on with me at the moment, I’ve got loads on my plate and this might just be a bread roll too many.’

  ‘Like what? What’s going on?’ His voice softens.

  ‘Nothing. Just … stuff. But it’s no big deal. I’ll figure it out. And it would be an amazing feature. And I would love to shame you on national TV with my mad baking skillz.’

  ‘Did you just pronounce that like it had a Z? Have you got rabies? I think you need to get back to work, Julia Swhatever.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  You need to pick your moment to tell your husband that you’re going to be slightly distracted from deciding exactly when you’ll open up your eggs for business because you’re going on TV to try and be a baking reality star. You have to pick that moment ever so carefully. And out at dinner with his boss is unsurprisingly free of those moments. It’s as free from calm and unawkward moments as an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, in fact. And in moments of panic, I tend to blame the Kardashians for whatever problem is at hand. Mostly because I very nearly once bought one of their Dorothy Perkins dresses by mistake and that made me feel dirty inside. And they could be causing terrible earthquakes with those huge heels and we just don’t have the technology to prove it right now.

  Pete’s boss is not any sort of obvious berk, and for that I should be grateful. But he is also completely free of small talk. Completely. The first time I met him he said, ‘Ah the lovely Eleanor of whom I’ve heard so much. Now, where are you at in your career? Are you happy with your pay scale?’ He sees social engagements with employees as bonus time to discuss strategies and budget management. If those employees risk bringing a loved one, it’s just a different information-gathering mission: Spencer will try and pick you for useful morsels from other businesses. But hey, he’s a very serious and successful Head of Finance and he didn’t get there by telling people he liked their perfume and asking what their favourite lunchtime sandwich filling was. Unless he was working for Boots.

  So this evening is about Spencer-handling while simultaneously hoping Pete isn’t too exhausted by the dinner ordeal to have a sympathetic ear to my new telly adventures later. Fine. Easy. This is totally covered in the marriage vows, I think. And I have a forgiving black dress on, which is good. I always grumpily slouch my way through an occasion where I think my stomach is pressing like a giant doughnut against the material round my waist. It never puts me in the best mood for answering questions about my life insurance policy or whether I have a history of diabetes in the family. And since Martin’s pointed comment about where my brilliant maternity idea came from while eyeballing my tummy, I have been especially paranoid about my borderl
ine paunch. I’ve even been very seriously thinking about sit-ups and went so far as to watch a YouTube clip of how best to do them.

  So with Pete in his best – pretty sexy – charcoal-grey suit and me in my forgiving black Jigsaw number, we’re going to be OK. And we are totally OK and Spencer’s OK and the food is OK. We’re in a chic, dimly lit restaurant behind Charlotte Street and it’s all OK. We are being suitably impressive. We are doing our duty and soon this task will be ticked off the list. It’s OK. Until just after the starter has been cleared away, when Spencer asks,

  ‘When are you having a baby, Eleanor?’

  Oh no he didn’t.

  Pete cuts in, my saviour, like a conversational shark – a veritable Jeremy Paxman – sensing blood in the water. ‘We’re currently discussing this private matter, thank you, Spencer.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ Spencer wipes crumbs from the tablecloth in one long sweep. ‘Eleanor must be nearing the end of her most fertile time of life. And for you, Peter, becoming a father would only strengthen your career. Research shows that after having a baby, a male executive is seen as more responsible, more trustworthy, someone who will commit and stay the course.’ He chuckles the sort of laugh someone on the far end of the autistic spectrum would think is a laugh, but is closer to a robot sound. ‘But of course for you, Eleanor,’ he smiles wryly and I sincerely want to punch him, ‘your career will be very much harmed.’

  Pete’s mouth actually falls open. This is the most shocked I’ve seen him since Sean Bean’s head got cut off in Game of Thrones.

  ‘You … you can’t …’ he stumbles. But I’ve got this. It’s not my first rodeo. I’ve had great-aunts tell me I’m in danger of going barren; I know how to dodge a conversational landmine that’s ticking as dangerously as my actual biological clock.

  ‘Tell me, Spencer, how old are your children?’ And so a new drone of information sharing begins and I settle back as my huge raviolis are delivered just in front of me. I catch ‘Peru’, ‘Grade Three Piano’ and ‘Hang-gliding’ as I savour every thyme-buttery mouthful. Sod the boring old git, let him talk. I have delicious carbs that are going on his expenses account. Besides, it’s not as if he can make me feel worse about my lack of a baby or babymaking plans. I think I’ve covered every angle of that myself, thank you very much.

  When we finally reach the comfort of our cosy flat, Pete is still working through the last stage of his shock: rage.

  ‘How dare he say that stuff to us! He’s not our friend or someone in our family! Our plans are our business. God, I thought he was a true professional, but he’s an absolutely nosey old sod!’ He makes tea in a very angry fashion, spilling the milk and clanging the spoon about in a semi-violent stirring action. ‘It’s so out of order to bring our family planning into the same sphere as our careers, don’t you think?’

  His face is all red and bothered, so I don’t laugh and gleefully launch a My Fair Lady impression – By Jove I think he’s got it! – as much as I might want to right now. Hearing Pete say all these things I’ve secretly seethed about myself is like rereading the fifteen-year-old Ellie’s diary. I remember all this frustration and self-righteousness Pete’s going through. Granted, I was ranting about gender discrimination and Page 3, but still. Put him in some burgundy lipstick and Doc Martens and he’s me in 1997, pretty much.

  ‘Totally,’ I nod.

  ‘And to say your career will be damaged is just crud. Isn’t it?’

  I twiddle a bit of hair.

  ‘Ellie?’

  ‘Well, I hate to agree with Mr Personality even a tiny bit, but “damaged” isn’t the worst word to sum up what happens to women in the office after they’ve had a baby.’

  My husband’s gone a bit grey. I put two sugar cubes into his tea, then I lean against the counter and fold my arms. If I’m not careful, I’m going to come across a bit end-of-the-world with Pete right now and his watery eyes and ruffled hair show me he hasn’t got far to go before he falls right off the ledge. Maybe I’ll just ease him into this.

  He stares into his tea, like’s it’s been made with a crystal teabag and can show him all the right answers. ‘But Lara in my office, she came back to work, she made it onto the Board. She has photos of her kids up in her office and she seems very … busy and happy.’

  ‘Any chance she might have a live-in nanny? I think I heard her complain about an Anastasia at your office admin’s wedding reception, so I’m pretty sure that’s how she keeps her plates spinning. Might explain how she works such long hours, enough to make it on to the Board. And I might just hazard a guess she’s the only woman around that table, huh?’

  Pete gulps back the scalding tea.

  ‘OK, so let’s look at the logistics of being a working woman who gets knocked up. Switch on your inner calculator and imagine it: you’ve got a great employee, you’ve sent them on training courses, you’ve developed their skills, they have valuable knowledge and experience for your business. They also have a uterus. When they get pregnant, there’s time out of the office for hospital appointments, scans, morning sickness. You can’t very well send them to the global conference in Geneva when they can’t get the airplane seat belt done up over their bump. They might be feeling weepy, they might not be able to sit through an hour-long meeting without five pee breaks. And all this discomfort has happened before even the smallest squeeze of a contraction.

  ‘After the small person has popped out, you’ll give your employee a lovely basket of something twee and useless, you’ll give her a cake and a card. Then you don’t see her for a year. You pay her some salary and her temporary cover’s salary too. Then she’ll come back, phew. Except she might need to leave early because of measles or a childcare shortage or a nativity play. And then, ooh, say two years later, she might do it. All. Over. Again. Now, tot that lot up and tell me employers don’t resent their female employees having babies.’

  God, I feel like Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.

  To be fair, I hit him it where it really hurts an accountant. In the balance sheet.

  ‘Whoah,’ Pete whispers.

  ‘It’s going to be OK, buddy.’ I massage the space just above his collarbone. ‘Well, not for the women that don’t earn enough to afford childcare, or don’t have obliging grandparents nearby. They’ll just have to stop working altogether and the economy loses valuable skills and knowledge. But let’s not think about that right now.’

  Pete’s eyes glaze over a little and he shuffles into the living room like a dazed extra from The Walking Dead. Perhaps this isn’t the time to mention getting my big face on the telly.

  I hear the laptop whir into life from the coffee table. He’s updating his spreadsheet of plans. How I love that giant nerd. And actually, this honesty thing is making me feel a lot easier. Weird.

  None in the Oven

  Hello pickles!

  Sorry I’ve been so quiet recently (I’m saying this like it makes any difference to the interwebs and you’re all sat there with no kitten videos to watch or ASOS dresses to buy at 2 a.m. and then regret when they turn up at your desk.).

  I’ve been trying to win some brownie points at work and some husband points at home. Looooong story there.

  But for once I’m not the one freaking out about babydom. It’s my other half: he’s had a tiny glimpse into the prickly cactus farm that is working motherhood, and now he’s pretty spooked. It’s quite sweet: he’s worried about my career getting spiked after we have a small person. And it’s also sensible of him: he has a spreadsheet that counts up all our savings and future earning power, to see if we can afford a house by 2023.

  The thing is, I didn’t really tell him the half of it. I didn’t recount the time I was sat next to my company director at a drunken business dinner when he said, ‘You know, it’s going to be such a shame when you leave us to have a baby.’ Just like ‘having a baby’ was tantamount to ‘getting a rare and incurable tropical disease where your brains fall out and you’re a useless lump for the rest of your poin
tless life’. He was basically saying, ‘When you’re up the duff you’re out on your ear.’ And the worst part? No one else round the table so much as winced. And I don’t even think it was because he was a man that he got away with it. A lady boss I had once said to someone on the team who’d announced that she was pregnant with her second baby, ‘You let it happen again?’ Gah, this is not what Aretha and Annie sang about, people! It’s as if ‘Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves’ didn’t actually change people’s deep-seated beliefs!

  I know what’s out there, I’ve seen it all before in colleagues past and present. The guilt of having to take a half-day sick because you can’t lift your head from the porcelain throne; the guilt of someone having to do your job for nine months, combined with the loathing for them if they do it better than you; the guilt that you take a full year rather than nine months, even when your boss calls you on month eight to say how utterly inconvenient it is for everyone else; the guilt that you have to leave your lovely little parcel of DNA with a childminder during the day when you’d rather just smell its neck and feed it banana; the guilt of having to leave at 5 p.m. on the dot to get back to that account-draining childminder, while everyone else is having business-crucial and fun conversations around the coffee machine.

  I didn’t really lift the lid fully for my bloke, as I knew what was in there might pop his head off like the bad guys at the end of the first Indiana Jones movie.

  But at least all this has settled one debate that was chasing itself in circles in my brain: it’s not just me. Other people see how messed up the whole thing is. ‘Phew’ doesn’t cover it, people.

  I promised my other half that I’d be completely honest with him in my maternity musings, so he knows where we stand. And so far it has taken a weight off my shoulders. Not sure I’ll be sharing this blog with him just yet though …

  If anyone has any positive experiences of how your boss reacted to you being pregnant, I’d love to hear them. They might just mend the hopes of a certain thirty-two-year-old man in South London right now.