Plus, she loved him. Of course.
He was part of the structure of Jess Bradley enterprises, integral to her blog.
Gone.
She needed to fix it fast. And one thing was sure.
Nobody could know.
Chapter Two
Love having the time to drop my daughter at school! #ownboss #proudmum #parenting #motherhood @StarPR
‘Mum, we’re going to be late!’ Anna moaned as they reversed out of the drive. ‘And do you have to wear those giant sunglasses?’
‘Yes, I do, actually,’ Jessica snapped. She’d done the mum thing of swallowing her emotions and pasting on a smile, but she knew her eyes would be a giveaway. She couldn’t turn up tearful on the school run or she’d attract nosy mums like a magnet. ‘I’ve … my hay fever’s flared up again.’
A decade ago, when Anna’s dad Grahame had ditched Jessica for someone ‘more on his level’ (which had turned out to mean someone with a 36DD bust), Anna had been a toddler. Meaning Jessica could palm her off on the grandparents and wallow under her duvet (until her best mate Bea had used a mixture of coaxing and bullying to get her out of bed).
When the two-year-old Anna had noticed Jessica’s red eyes on her return each day, she’d been interested rather than worried, poking her fat little fingers into them with fascination and peeling the lids open.
Jessica missed the days of probing fingers, however sticky. Much easier to deal with than probing questions.
‘OK. Well, can you drop me—’
‘Anna Bradley, I will drop you by the gate and watch you walk in. And when you’re a mum, you will understand why!’
‘But Mummmm! I’m twelve! Half my friends walk to school.’
This was, actually, true. Was she babying Anna too much? She’d wanted another baby after Anna was born, but then Grahame had said he couldn’t commit to a second child right then because of a “work project” (which had turned out to be less of a business affair and more of a romantic one). He’d left shortly afterwards to set up a new life with a younger, more organic model. Now, due to her dodgy genetics, Jessica’s ovaries were probably shrivelled up like raisins.
Mum was fond of graphically recounting how she’d gone through the menopause before forty, so Jessica was probably right on the cusp. ‘One day I was having my monthlies, the next I’d dried up like a desert lagoon,’ she’d told them over Christmas dinner one year. ‘It was like someone had turned off the taps! Cranberry sauce, anyone?’
Unless Jessica was gifted a newborn by a kindly stork, Anna was destined to be babied for a good few years yet.
‘Sorry,’ Jessica said, in an uncharacteristic fit of honesty. ‘I don’t seem to be able to help it.’
Her daughter softened then. ‘S’OK,’ she said. ‘I hate walking anyway.’
Jessica pulled up outside the school behind a triangular-looking Smart car and something that looked like a Land Rover but wasn’t.
‘Bye, then.’ Anna grabbed her bag and gave her mother’s arm a little rub.
‘Hang on,’ said Jessica, leaning over and giving her daughter a proper hug.
Anna squirmed a little in her embrace. ‘Mummm!’ she protested. ‘People will see.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, with a what can you do? shrug as Anna got out of the car, red-faced.
She was just about to rev up and get the hell out of there before the last-minuters arrived and hemmed her in, when a cascade of glossy hair tumbled through the window. A woman, her horsey face perfectly made up, leaned in.
Jessica self-consciously tucked her dark-blonde hair behind her ears. She’d given it a cursory brush before setting off, but hadn’t bothered with the straighteners. Being confronted with a barnet fit for a shampoo ad made her even more conscious that she wasn’t looking her best. She had a beauty appointment before work, too, so hadn’t bothered with make-up.
‘Jessica!’ the woman/horse said, in the kind of breathy, excited tone that people use when they’ve found a long-lost relative, or been given the gift of a lifetime. ‘I thought it was you! Wow! Love the sunglasses! I didn’t realise those giant frames were back in vogue!’
‘Thanks.’
A manicured hoof thrust its way towards her and Jessica shook it briefly.
‘I’m Liz – you know, Jasper’s mum?’
Jasper was a malnourished-looking boy in Anna’s class. He and Anna had played together briefly as toddlers.
‘Oh, yes. How are you?’ Jessica smiled, painfully aware that she was due at a salon to trial one of the latest trends in facials for an on-blog advertorial.
‘Yes, yes. Fine.’ Liz waved her hand dismissively as if she was never anything else. ‘I just wanted to say, it’s been ages since we caught up.’
‘Yes.’ Because we developed an intense dislike for one another after you told me that Anna was a bad influence.
It had almost been a decade ago, but Jessica had never quite forgiven Liz for suggesting that Jasper’s new-found love of the word boobies must have come from the then three-year-old Anna. It had been true, mind … but still.
‘Anyway, I’m organising another of these quiz nights,’ the hand waved again. ‘You know, raising funds for the school, blah blah blah. And then I thought – why am I writing these questions when I know a professional writer. I’ve read your blog, of course. And I thought, who better to write the questions and – um – maybe get a bit more interest in it all, you know, than the famous Jessica Bradley! As featured in Fit Woman magazine,’ she whinnied, using her fingers to make virtual quotation marks.
‘Well …’ The last thing Jessica wanted to do was add something else to her workload.
‘Of course, if you’re too busy … It’s just that, we’re so hoping for the new minibus this year …’
Jessica felt a sudden rush of guilt. Would it really hurt her to write a few questions for a quiz? She could probably do it in her sleep. And this was Anna’s school; potentially Anna’s minibus. Anna was always moaning that Jessica never turned up for anything except parents’ evening (which apparently ‘doesn’t count’).
The main drawback was that it would mean working with Liz – one of those perfect mothers whose involvement in everything and seemingly endless enthusiasm left Jessica feeling like a complete parental failure.
‘Of course. Of course. I mean, I can’t stop now. I’m … uh, having a facial. But I’ll give you my number,’ Jessica found herself saying. Perhaps she ought to offer Liz a job. When she failed to raise a client’s profile, Liz could gallop in and make potential customers feel guilty enough to buy anything.
‘No need. Got your email,’ Liz winked conspiratorially. ‘Website,’ she mouthed.
A car beeped behind. In the rear-view mirror of her Citroën, Jess could see a vehicle that was either a minibus or a small lorry. Either way, she was quite grateful for the excuse to get away. ‘Well, speak soon!’ she said revving the engine slightly.
Liz straightened herself and shook her glossy mane into place. ‘Yes, looking forward to it!’
Jessica put the car into first and started towards the city centre.
‘One of the benefits of blogging,’ she’d said to her new PA, Candice, last week when the email had arrived offering her the treatment, ‘is the freebies.’ A salon, a new ultra-modern place and part of a national chain, had offered her a trial of their new skin-rejuvenating ‘LifeForce’ facial in return for an ‘honest’ online review.
Since the Dave-effect had netted her a fantastic following, Jessica had been gifted everything from gym shoes to bleach-your-own-bumhole kits. People were approaching her with offers of paid-for posts, and she was showered with freebies every morning in the mail.
Some opportunities she’d turned down – the DIY dentistry kit; the puréed fish eye plan; a build-your-own luxury coffin workshop. Others, she’d taken up either because the product
was desirable or, like this one, because it would drive a lot of traffic to her site. And traffic, as she now knew, was more important than all her training, experience and bulging contacts book combined.
‘Their website gets over a hundred thousand hits per month,’ Candice had trilled across the room. ‘First page of Google. Could be good for business.’
Good for business. Candice had only been at the firm for a week and a half, and was barely into her twenties. But that meant, of course, that she was representative of the younger generation; she had a finger on the pulse.
When Jessica was younger there had been a natural progression to most people’s careers. You’d start at a lowly position and work your way up, gaining experience and expertise. Younger staff would look at those more senior as mentors and educators. Now, women of her generation were getting out of date – like a forgotten pack of ham at the back of the fridge. You missed an online trend and it was over.
Rather than hide in the shadows, she’d taken some steps to raise her own profile – pimping up her Twitter account and linking it to her public relations page. ‘The more followers you can get personally, the better,’ one of her peers had confided at a training day. ‘People like to know who they’re dealing with. Start a blog, maybe? Get yourself on Instagram with some cute pictures.’
Social media meant that clients expected a lot more from her too: local, tinpot firms wanted to be featured in Vogue; the pig farmer around the corner had asked her if she could get him into the Telegraph. The internet had increased reach, but also increased expectations. People wanted everyone to know about their business and to create the right image, the right brand. The bubble continued to inflate with no sign of bursting.
As she pulled into the car park, she saw her face briefly reflected in the salon’s mirrored window. A little white disc, her eyebags visible even from this distance. Since employing Candice, Jessica had become painfully aware that she didn’t look quite as young as she’d optimistically convinced herself she did. It was hard not to notice the cracks and crevices in her skin when confronted with her employee’s annoyingly smooth complexion every morning.
‘Anti-ageing,’ she said quietly to herself, remembering some of the claims for the facial. At least this afternoon she was going to look hot. She tried to forget about Dave and think instead of how fabulous she’d feel when the promised ten years had been knocked off.
She took the obligatory (heavily-filtered) selfie outside the salon, making sure the signage was clearly displayed, and quickly popped it onto her social-media feed – #beautytreatment #antiageing #thisisthelife #soexcited – then stepped inside.
‘Hello, it’s Jessica, right?’ a perky, red-haired woman smiled at her from reception as she entered. ‘Let me just get Lucy to pop down and show you where to go.’
‘Thank you.’ Jessica perched herself on one of the salon’s waiting chairs and eyed the pile of magazines and brochures scattered on a nearby table. One showed a woman, completely naked, but sitting in a kind of half-Buddha style that meant all the rude bits were hidden in a complicated tangle of hair-free arms and legs.
Jessica remembered a time when women were allowed to have body hair. When pubes were only frowned upon if they escaped round the edge of your bikini bottoms like curious infants peeking from behind their mother’s skirt. It had been a simpler time.
Hairier, but simpler.
These days, instead of pubic hair, most women’s nether regions went through a wax-and-growth cycle that Shakespeare – had he been around – might have termed the Seven Stages of Fan: just-waxed rash, post-wax vag-pox, smooth and nude, sandpaper prickles, designer stubble, soft and fluffy, and, finally, rampant overgrowth. And round the cycle went. Perhaps, Jessica thought as she studied the the price list on the wall, that’s what people meant by the circular economy.
Before she even had time to pick up a magazine, a door opened and a young woman with cropped blonde hair, wearing what appeared to be a lab coat stepped through it.
‘Hi, Jessica!’ she gushed, shaking Jessica’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I’m Lucy. Lovely to meet you at last! Love the blog – so honest!’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you just want to come through,’ she said, gesturing to a door on their left. Inside the room, everything was light, bright and brand new. A leather treatment table sat in the corner, and the air was heavy with the scent of lavender oil.
Jessica felt herself begin to relax. This was just what she needed.
After settling her into the chair, Lucy began to apply a cool liquid to Jessica’s face. ‘You know, not many people wanted to come and try this facial,’ she said, her fingers working the liquid into Jessica’s skin quite forcefully. ‘But it really does have amazing results.’
‘Really?’ Jessica closed her eyes and began to enjoy the sensation of Lucy’s fingers working into her skin with quick, firm movements. The serum had a familiar smell – odd, but not unpleasant.
‘Yeah. I suppose they just thought it was a bit gross,’ Lucy continued, pouring a generous measure of the serum into her palm, before rubbing her hands together. ‘Whoops. Sorry. Dripped a bit on you there,’ she said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing Jessica’s jumper.
‘That’s OK.’ Jessica relaxed as Lucy began again on the serum. ‘They thought it was gross, you say? Why?’ It certainly seemed a fairly normal facial so far. Was she going to be required to strip naked and have the serum rubbed over the rest of her body? Or was there a horrible product to apply afterwards?
‘Yeah, you know. The semen.’
‘The serum?’
‘No, semen. Bull semen.’
‘Bull, what?’
Lucy slapped her palms together again. ‘Yeah, it’s meant to be rejuvenating. It’s all organic and that.’
‘Bull semen?’
‘Oh, shit, sorry. Got some in your hair.’ Out came the tissue again.
‘Sorry. This is bull semen?’
‘Yeah. It’s great for the skin. Some women use their own partner’s, but apparently bull semen has more antioxidants.’
Jessica closed her lips as some of the serum ran across her mouth. ‘Mm hmmm,’ she said. Then ‘I just didn’t realise …?’
‘Oh, sorry. That’s probably why you said yes, right?’ Lucy smiled. ‘But honestly, it’s worth it.’
‘Right, good.’
‘And it’s all hand-sourced – from field to face.’
‘Great.’
‘And we refrigerate it, so like it’s fresh and everything.’
‘Right.’ Because what else could you say?
‘OK, that’s you done,’ smiled Lucy. ‘I’ll just leave it on for a few minutes to let your skin really absorb the nutrients.’
And she left the room, leaving Jessica to relax to a CD of natural countryside sounds before returning, rubbing off the excess with a warm facecloth and posing with Jessica for a thumbs-up after-shot.
Loved my #LifeForce Facial! #rejuvenating #natural #farmfresh #cuttingedge #freerange #odourfree
Four face-scrubs later, Jessica could still smell a faint whiff of bull jizz on her skin.
Driving back, she called the office from her hands-free, hoping to get her mind off it.
‘Star PR, Candice speaking!’
‘Hi, Candice, it’s Jessica.’
‘Oh hiya! How’s it going?’
‘Erm, fine thanks. On my way back. Just wanted to know if there were any messages.’
‘One from Hugo. He said he’d try your mobile.’
‘OK.’
‘Yeah, it was weird. He rang back twice after that, but hung up both times when I answered.’
‘I put my phone on divert to the office while I was in the salon. Sorry, should have said.’ Jessica imagined Hugo – not the most technically minded of clients – repeatedly dialling her mobile and finding her office
at the end of the line. ‘Look, I’ll be there in ten minutes. If he calls again tell him I’ll ring him right back,’ she said, although in all honesty she wasn’t sure if she was up to a dose of Hugo.
‘OK, see you then! Oh, and Jessica?’
‘Yes?’
‘How was the appointment?’
Did Jessica detect a hint of a giggle there? ‘Oh, fine,’ she breezed.
‘Skin looking good?’
Jessica glanced briefly in the rear-view mirror. Her reddened face looked back at her.
‘Well, very, er, clean.’
‘Right.’
‘Candice?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you know what a LifeForce Facial involved when you booked me in?’
There was a silence. ‘Line’s breaking up’ Candice replied after a suspicious pause. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’
‘OK, well, see you in a minute.’
‘OK. I’ll get you a coffee, shall I?’ Evidently, the technical problem had resolved itself.
‘Oh, OK.’ This was a new level of efficiency for Candice.
‘Do you want … want some milk in it?’
Chapter Three
Jessica applied a little powder to her rather inflamed skin before leaving the car, then adopted the kind of poise she imagined a CEO ought to have. Head high, Jessica, as her mum used to say whenever she’d got nervous as a child.
When she entered the office, Candice was sitting at her desk, typing furiously; Natalie was finishing a phone call, her face animated.
‘Hi, ladies!’ Jessica said, in greeting, trying to keep her voice upbeat. ‘Got a couple of goody bags for you!’ She placed the bags handed to her by the salon (no sperm included) by the coat stand before hot footing it to her desk and sliding her sunglasses off.
Everything is Fine: The funny, feel-good and uplifting page-turner you won't be able to put down! Page 2
