by Rae Earl
All this is interrupted by seven of the most frightening words in the history of mankind.
“Can we have a chat now, Millie?”
Here’s a warning: Parents are slightly evil. I mean, they can be snakelike with their cunning. Mum has hidden behind the wheel in a tight coil and is now bursting out with fangs to interrogate me. I’m cornered. I can’t get off. We are in something that is going 80 mph and has childproof locked doors. Mum even controls the volume to the radio. I’ve witnessed some songs by a group called the Backstreet Boys that no one should have to hear. This car can be like a prison cell. A prison cell with really bad tunes about everybody rocking their body in the correct way.
Mum takes a big breath. “I know you’re getting your head around everything that is going on. I saw your last vlog. Whatever happens in this meeting, just see all this as … froth on your coffee.”
Froth on my coffee. I’m about to have one of the most important meetings ever and Mum is saying it’s like the top of a hot drink. Mum has explained to me that she has a brain like mine! She, of ALL people, should understand that keeping calm when the stakes are THIS high is IMPOSSIBLE. I can feel my face collapsing. I do not have a poker face, as Aunty Teresa calls it. I wear my emotions like a very loud shirt.
Mum can see I look confused and tries to explain.
“I mean, this is just a wonderful experience. It’s not the REALLY important stuff of life. It’s just fun. FUN! F. U. N. Something to enjoy and have a laugh with Lauren about!”
I’ve noticed that when someone says something is going to be fun, it’s not. If it really is going to be fun, you don’t need to label it.
This is when I have to tell Mum I feel a lot differently about it. All this is very important to me because I want everything I do to go viral. I like to get things RIGHT and a lot of people see my posts. Probably everyone. And they’ll all have an opinion on it and feedback and comments and trolls. Basically, trolls doing their trolling thing.
Mum stares at me. “Work out who matters and concentrate on the facts. Something else, too, Millie. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”
Mum says this with a wink.
Don’t sweat the small stuff. That phrase was never designed for me. I sweat all sizes of stuff. I do not discriminate. If it’s big, I worry, and if it’s tiny, I worry. Mum says I run an equal-opportunity kind of anxiety. She’s right.
#LydiaPortancia
When we finally do arrive at Lydia Portancia’s office, we are late. Very late. We are also flustered, with red faces and frizzy hair. This is because we got really lost. Mum asked everyone for directions, from a street cleaner to a tourist from Beijing who has only been in the city for three days. She showed us where we should go. We might as well be wearing signs that say, WE DO NOT HAVE A CLUE WHAT WE ARE DOING AND WE NEED HELP FROM EVERYONE.
For the record, this includes people who are on a trip of a lifetime and really could do without having to help two lost people. Mum told her she should go to the Victoria and Albert Museum. The tourist told Mum she had been twice already and had sketched the entire Elizabethan fashion section.
I also do not think our appearance is the right “look” for a business meeting. I mean, I’ve never had a business meeting before, but in my gut, this feels wrong and my gut has a brain of its own that is very often right. Also, it’s very unlike Mum. She’s always so prepared for things like this. Perhaps she has a lot on her mind. She seems a bit distracted.
I know the feeling.
The receptionist greets us and we have to sign in and wear name tags. Mum has a special place on her jacket for hers. I try to copy her, but it feels a bit like I’m wearing a LOOK AT ME!! MY NAME IS MILLIE!! brooch. It’s conspicuous—it might as well have flashing lights on it. I usually like being anonymous. I know that sounds faintly ridiculous as I now vlog to … let’s just call it “a lot” of people. Don’t ask me to do actual numbers, as they make me feel a bit sick. Mum calls them “stadium” numbers. Stadiums. People piled high on top of each other in seats all looking at me. I imagine all my subscribers being at a football game and everyone pulling a “What the hell?!” face as I sing the national anthem and get the second line wrong.
Just as I’m becoming a national disgrace in my head, Mum distracts me by pointing at a poster that says KEEP CALM AND VLOG.
I don’t know what it is about “Keep Calm” posters, but they always have the opposite effect on me. They just make me all sweaty. They basically tell you there is something to be worried about. It’s like someone yelling “KEEP CALM!” at you whilst your house is on fire and your cat is still stuck inside.
Of course, knowing Dave, she’d be walking through the fire dragging humans out and still looking feline-glam like some kind of FUR-QUEEN.
From the corner of my eye, I see a firework go off. It’s Lydia Portancia. She’s very flamboyant. Nails with clouds on them. Flouncy patterned scarves.
“Millie, what a joy! I feel like I know you!” she screams. “You have this incredible ability to bring warmth to the screen. Vulnerability, yet—I think you’d call it—sass!”
She does this double kiss thing. I manage to kiss one cheek and then kiss the random air. This is standard.
Lydia looks to either side of my arms and grins. “Where’s Dave?”
Did she seriously expect me to bring the cat?
“Er … she’s not the best traveler,” I mutter. “She attaches herself to the ceiling of the cat cage when we take her to the vet. She defies gravity very easily!”
Lydia does a too-big laugh. I mean, what I said was kind of funny, but it wasn’t hilarious.
Finally, Lydia gets around to Mum.
“And you’re Millie’s mum! Hello! Delighted to meet you!”
Lydia does not embrace my mother. This is because my mum is standing in a position that makes a hug impossible. She thrusts her arm out like a missile and does her trademark boa constrictor business handshake.
“Yes, I’m Millie’s mum. Please call me Ms. Porter, though. I’m very proud of my daughter, but I think it’s very important for us all to be framed within our nonmaternal roles as women. Millie has my name. I don’t believe in possessive, patriarchy-driven titles.”
I know my mum. This is her no-messing “A” game. It’s “bring it on!” feminism, and it’s magnificently scary. If I were Lydia, I’d feel slightly weirded out and probably slightly frightened.
Lydia, though, seems totally unfazed. She throws her hands in the air and says, “My dear, I TOTALLY understand! My husband’s name was Smith. There was no way on earth I was taking THAT on and losing my Renaissance roots! Now”—she turns to a young girl scurrying behind her—“rooibos tea, please, Samantha. Touch of honey and an Oreo. Now, drinks! Coffee? Yes? YES!” She doesn’t give us time to answer, but Mum answers anyway. “Actually, can I have tea, please? Milk, no sugar. And Millie will have the same. We are not big coffee drinkers. We don’t need artificial energy.”
This is not in any sense fully true, but I am not prepared to argue with Mum in any way, shape, or form right now.
Lydia sits down in her chair. I say chair, but it’s more like a throne. It has plump purple cushions and ornate gold framework. She holds each arm and sits up poker-straight. It’s definitely regal. Our chairs are a lot lower than hers and a lot less fancy.
Mum gets in first. “So, tell me, Lydia,” she pronounces, “what is the strategy for my daughter?”
Lydia takes a deep breath. “Well, the strategy is to link Millie to other vloggers and influencers. It’s about gently promoting her product. Branded merchandise will get sent to her for free for her to mention and then, depending on her growth of course, people will pay her to promote their products. It will probably start with pet food companies and pet accessories.”
I find my mouth yelling out, “Dave won’t touch anything with lamb!”
I realize that sounds a bit dramatic, so I elaborate. “I mean, she used to love it, but she hates it now. She has phases. She ha
d a massive turkey thing going on, and then she dropped her blue-ringed octopus in a turkey and vegetable gourmet broth and…”
Lydia interrupts, “Aren’t blue-ringed octopuses deadly?”
I realize I sound completely insane. Why isn’t Mum flying in to save me from my own brain?!
I try to explain. “Oh, the blue-ringed octopus is just a toy. It’s Dave’s favorite thing. My friend’s dad brought it back from Sydney. It’s not poisonous. Well, it probably would be if you ate it all, but Dave just dribbles on it, mainly. The point is, I can’t make Dave eat stuff she doesn’t want to eat!”
There is a long pause whilst everyone, including me, tries to work out what I just said.
Lydia clearly decides that she is going to ignore my mind blurt and carry on with her very logical train of thought.
“I’ve looked at the last vlog. Millie, it’s wonderful. If I can just add a teensy caveat?”
I don’t know what one of these is, but I’ll google it later.
Lydia stares at me hard. “Just more cat. Dave is a key part of your brand. We need maximum Dave at all points! Any opportunity to get her in the vlog, however tenuous, is a FANTASTIC opportunity! We need maximum Dave at all points!”
I can tell immediately that Lydia is a dog person. Dog people expect things to do as they are told. Dog people expect things to sit and do tricks. Cat people like me know through Dave that life is fundamentally ALL chaos and that you can’t control anything.
I try to explain this politely, but it comes out a bit exasperated. “She’s a cat. She’s quite hard to control.”
At times like this, I wish I could go to my Zen Loo and just get my thoughts together.
Lydia seems to have her answer already prepared.
“Incentivize her! It’s simple. I appreciate that she’s a fussy eater. Most divas are! Try treats. Expensive treats. NEVER be afraid to go salmon. Atlantic, not tinned. Lightly steamed! Add a little mayonnaise to it. Make her feel special. I tend to find if you make these creatures feel important, they respond with a better performance—whether they are human or feline!”
Mum makes an “I beg your pardon?!” face. We don’t get to eat that sort of food on a regular basis. Also, it involves a certain degree of cooking skill. I can’t see Gary the Neat Freak cooking individual meals for Dave. He barely tolerates her as it is.
What we have learned from this whole exchange is that Lydia is definitely very rich and that she has a poodle—a professionally trained one, at that. It was probably from a circus, is perfectly groomed at all times, and is totally obedient. This is the opposite of Dave. I mean, she keeps herself neat but she is also chill enough these days to have half a hedge attached around her body and not really give two hoots. She certainly never does what anyone asks her to.
I can see all this is leading to one thing that I don’t feel I can talk about at all.
“So, money,” Mum declares. She gets straight to it. This is a woman who does massive deals every week. Zero prisoners are taken. Mum says to go straight for the jugular. Close the deal. It’s an art, she has always told me—the art of the deal! She used to say this a lot until she realized it was also the title of a book by Donald Trump. Now she says it hardly ever.
Mum continues. She sounds so TOUGH.
“What sort of money are you going to take from my daughter for your representation?”
Lydia is completely unperturbed. “I won’t take anything till Millie actually starts earning money. Then we can think about full contracts and things like that. We’ll obviously be looking for verification from all the platforms that she is on.”
“Verification of what?” Mum asks. She’s confused. How many times have I explained this?! It’s still not going into her head.
Lydia smiles. I think she quite likes the fact that Mum doesn’t understand something.
“Verification. Usually a little symbol that just confirms that you’re ‘you,’ as it were. It can be something like a blue checkmark. Immediately, your potential in every way increases. It just gives you more credibility. More social media power!”
Mum looks really unimpressed, but keeps it professional. “And how do we get that?”
Lydia pops her head onto her shoulder and takes a big sigh.
“Well, it depends completely on the platform Millie is appearing on. I’m not sure of the complete criteria. If I’m honest, I don’t think anyone fully is.”
This response does not make Mum happy. She goes full-on sarcastic.
“So, a totally random person decides whether my daughter has a check next to her name to make her ‘credible.’ It’s a brave new world!”
Mum says this in such a way that I know she is thinking it’s a BAD new world and not a brave one.
I want my mum to look after the business parts for me, but I don’t want her to mess this up for me either.
Lydia tries to reassure Mum. “I understand it sounds a bit odd, but Ms. Porter, this is all very new territory. Certainly, for women of our generation who were probably lucky to have one phone line in the house! I’d really encourage you to spend some time online yourself. I don’t mean just on Netflix. I mean having a look at other social influencers, other vloggers, and check out how they conduct themselves and look at just what successful brands they’ve become.”
Mum nods. “Lydia,” she pronounces, “this has certainly given us a lot to think about. I think we are both prepared to enter into this preliminary arrangement with you. Obviously, we’ll have to see how it goes, and I will be monitoring the situation very closely.”
This statement has two effects. First, I feel about six years old and vaguely furious. Second, Lydia is absolutely delighted.
“This is wonderful news!” she shouts, and leaps out of her throne to give me another air-kissy semi-hug weird thing. She shakes Mum’s hand very firmly. It’s almost like they are wrestling.
“That’s a deal, then!” Lydia sort of yells.
“Yes,” Mum says, “it’s a kind of deal until we get something more firm in place. Something more formal.”
My mum always has to have the final word.
In the car on the way back, I’m quiet. This is because I am annoyed. My mum’s brain drill can feel this.
“Millie,” she says, again when we are hurtling along at high speed in a car I can’t escape from, “I know you probably felt a bit patronized in there, and I can understand that. But the thing is, you are still very young, with not a lot of business experience. I have lots, and I’m not going to apologize for it. I know how to talk to people without giving an inch. You’re the most important person in my life. You always will be. That’s why I took over. You’ve shown you can do your thing brilliantly online. Let me do my thing brilliantly offline.”
Mum is fantastic at this. She gives you a huge compliment so you can’t really argue with anything else she has said. I’m still angry, though, so I have to say something.
“I just felt a bit left out, that’s all. You did the full feminist name-intro classic, then you totally took over ALL the financial stuff. All the ‘Let’s talk money,’ and then YOU closed the deal. I wanted to shut the deal door. Or whatever you call it.”
“I get it,” Mum sort of whispers, “but trust me, Millie, it was for the best.”
“It was for the best.” Let’s hope so. At the moment, it just feels like in the most important meeting of my life, I was a huge spare part. An extra. One of those people who get a tiny amount of money every day to sit behind someone more important in a TV show and pretend to talk. According to Lauren, they just say the word rhubarb repeatedly.
I am the rhubarb girl. Mum is the major star. No, Dave is. Dave is the Lady Gaga of our house. The meeting was mainly about her and she didn’t even go. She WOULDN’T even go.
I feel like all this has gone wrong.
#HowDidItGo?
By the time we get home it’s quite late, but Mum lets Danny in to talk for a few minutes. This is probably because she feels a bit guilty for t
reating me like a toddler when I am the actual brand. I sound a bit like a diva, but I don’t like being talked over. She may be my manager, but I can guarantee that Ariana Grande’s mum does NOT treat her like that. They are a real TEAM effort.
Danny is excited. “How did it go?!” he screams.
I just groan, “Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” and then realize Danny doesn’t have psychic abilities.
“It went okay.” I sigh. “The thing is, she wants cats.”
Danny starts giggling. “Perhaps you can get a cat cam. Have you seen Animals with Cameras? They put a camera around cheetahs’ necks!! You get to see everything. Sleep. Eating. Killing stupid gazelles by running at sixty miles an hour and grabbing them by the neck.”
That’s the wildlife version of what Mum was trying to do to Lydia Portancia today in the meeting.
I stare at Danny. I’m not really in the mood for silly. I’m a bit of a grump.
“One, that would cost a fortune. Two, I don’t want to cramp Dave’s style. Can you imagine what it’s like to go out and meet the other cats in the neighborhood? ‘What’s that around your neck, Dave? Honestly, buddy, it looks a bit ridiculous.’ I’m all for statement accessories, but that’s too much.”
This makes Danny laugh a lot. It’s very cool being a woman who makes handsome men collapse with the giggles. Mum says it’s a superpower.
“I can’t stay around for long,” Danny says once he’s finished wiping his eyes. “Big day tomorrow. Dad has called a BIG family meeting.”
I stare at him and then squint. “That sounds a bit ominous.”
Danny doesn’t look too fussed. “Millie, in my experience it could be about anything from ‘Shall we get a gerbil?’ to ‘What’s for dinner on Sunday?’ to ‘Your grandma has decided she wants to do a sky-dive at age eighty-six and I think we should absolutely talk her out of it considering her arthritis.’ It could be ANYTHING. I take life as it comes.”
