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Keeping healthy is so important to me. Feeling good in my body helps my mind feel better. I love my new #GreenMachineQT juicer. I get at least 3 of my 5 a day in one drink. Happy body, happy brain. #AD #selflove #love #together #women #acceptyourself #beyourself #knowyourtruth #womensupportingwomen #vegan
@florecent360: Why do Ads when you’re about to marry one of the richest men in the country? Give your fee to charity??
@missiondone123 to @florecent360: She is her own person! Would it be better to live off her husband? I have so much respect for a woman paying her own way. OWN IT Lauren, I love you!!!
@MineAintYours: AD? SELL OUT. GET A REAL JOB that doesn’t involve you only wearing pants.
@MatyMooMelly: I love you so much. Everything you say is what I need to hear. Thanks for being you
@pigeontoe: #relatable NOT.
@fabouty: Remember to love yourself. You are such an inspiration to me.
@Hartherlodge: Srsly, get a grip. Rich, thin, fit. What the fuck else do you need? That smoothie looks like when a dog eats grass then pukes it up.
@seveneh: I wish I had your figure.
Beth
I think to myself, right in the middle of it. If I am going to have all of this sex, with all of these strange men, I have to get some enjoyment out of it for me. I pull myself on top of him, and rub myself on his thigh. I forget about his pleasure, and just focus on my own. I’m bringing myself to the most phenomenal orgasm when I hear …
‘Beth? Beth?’ His voice is breathy and gentle. ‘Beth? Beth?’
My eyes open.
‘Were you having another one of your dreams?’
Shit.
‘Yes I was,’ I say. He thinks that the dreams I have, the ones that cause me to writhe around moaning in my sleep, are recurring dreams of me ballroom dancing. Because that is what I told him. I said that ballroom dancing is an unrequited ambition of mine. He got me classes for my last birthday. I am yet to use the vouchers.
‘I was doing the waltz, with you. We were going to win I reckon,’ I tell him, sleepily. Thinking it best not to mention the hot builder who was just paying more attention to my fanny than my foxtrot.
‘You’d have been a beautiful dancer,’ he says, smiling. ‘Here, he’s ready for you.’ He passes me my four-month-old baby, Tommy. I sit up, unclip my bra, and put my nipple in his mouth. Michael looks away. ‘Let me know when you’re done,’ he says. ‘I’ll come get him and you can get some more sleep.’
‘It’s OK, I better work. What time is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘Wow, thanks. That’s a legit lie-in.’
‘Well, you’ve pumped enough to feed an entire baby army. He took his bottle happily at seven, there was no need to wake you,’ he says, kissing my head gently.
‘Thank you. I’m very lucky to have you as my husband.’
‘And Tommy and I are very lucky to have you. Call me when you’re done.’
Michael leaves the room. I hold my baby to my breast with one arm and use the other to reach for my phone.
As expected, my inbox is bulging already. The caterers, the florists, the cake maker, the PRs. This job is extremely demanding. I’d hoped to get six months’ maternity leave when I got pregnant, but this came in a few months ago and I couldn’t turn it down. That’s the trouble when you run your own business, no one pays you for your time off. So I ordered the tablecloths when I was in the labour ward. I sacked a florist while my stitches were being done. I’m everyone’s best friend, but I can be a boss when I need to be.
Michael managed to negotiate three months’ paternity leave because he works for a start-up that sees itself as entirely modern in its approach to absolutely everything. Which is an ironic place for him to work. He is forty-four and not modern. Unlike me – I’m thirty-six but sit in an office with a twenty-six-year-old every day who gives a masterclass on how to be a millennial. But I am grateful for Michael’s random modern job, because it’s meant that I’ve been able to keep up with the level of attention needed to organise the celebrity wedding of the year. And I’m grateful I didn’t have to sacrifice my work, although having to be ‘grateful’ towards my husband hasn’t gotten me any closer to resolving our problem.
I was really enjoying that dream. I put down my phone and slip my hand between my legs. As if he knows what I’m thinking, my baby gurgles and pulls back from my nipple, giving me a judgemental side eye. He’s probably right.
I swap him onto the other boob and stroke his head. It’s a miracle I have him at all, and I am so grateful. Not because there is anything wrong with me. I’m thirty-six and apparently a ‘geriatric’ when it comes to making babies, but the doctor said I have the ovaries of a twenty-year-old. Michael is perfectly fertile too, despite his age. Men are so lucky in that way; they can be fathers once they’re well past their ‘peak’. We have to do it at the most inconvenient time in our lives, when our careers should really be all we have to think about. He took all of the tests as a distraction from the act of actually having sex. It was awkward in the appointments with the fertility doctor; he’d say he’d do what he could to get to the bottom of why I wasn’t getting pregnant, and all the while I wanted to scream the reason directly into my husband’s face.
‘IT’S BECAUSE YOU WON’T HAVE SEX WITH ME. YOU NEVER FUCK ME. THAT IS WHY I AM NOT PREGNANT.’ I felt like if I ever got pregnant from the once a month I managed to get him to come inside me, it would be a miracle. But I did. And then I was. And now I have my baby, so at least I got that out of this marriage.
I love my husband, I do. He is kind and fun in pretty much every area of life other than sex. His mother is the battle-axe of all battle-axes and their relationship is weird and loaded with sexual context. They, of course, don’t see it, but I do. Is it really normal for a grown man to pop over to his mum’s house for a foot massage? Is it? No, it isn’t. Is it also normal to call your mother every morning, or to ask her to go to dentist appointments with you because you are scared? I want my little boy to know that I am always there for him, but I also want him to have healthy sexual relationships with other women, and not insist that I come on all their family holidays. I will also do my best not to make his future lovers feel like their relationship with him is second place. As long as he always comes home for Christmas.
Michael is always ‘tired’. He says it’s his age.
We had a lot of sex when we got together, which was fun while it was happening but often ended strangely. He’d say things like, ‘It’s natural for a man to want to flee after sex.’ Or, ‘You didn’t come, I don’t mind if you finish yourself off.’ Funnily enough I rarely did – a comment like that can send a clitoris sailing to the ground like an unopened parachute. Thud.
It wasn’t that he was cruel, just weird about sex. But we did it lots, so the romantic in me always presumed that all we needed was time. Practice. I put his issues down to the lack of wedlock at the time. He’s kind of traditional and maybe marriage meant a lot to him? I presumed he’d be in his element from our wedding night on. But no, it was as if he had sullied his bride. When we got back to our suite he said, ‘It’s a shame you’ve slept with people before.’ I walked out of the room, took off the sexy underwear I had on under my dress, changed it for my normal stuff and went back in to discover him asleep, or pretending to be asleep to get out of having sex with his whore of a wife.
There were always subtle undertones of blame. And as his sex drive has dwindled, his challenged machismo likes to make me feel that it’s all my fault. A few weeks ago he said sex was off the cards because my breath smelt. I cleaned my teeth. To which he responded with, ‘Mint makes me nauseous. You always get the toothpaste I don’t like.’ The dentist told me two days later that there were no signs of halitosis or anything dying underneath my tongue. But even still, I covered my mouth whenever I spoke to him for about a week after that.
Even during childbirth my body seemed to bother him. He stayed up by my head and kept giving me a really annoying head massage. The midwife asked him if he wanted to watch as Tommy was crowning, and Michael said, ‘God no, that’s not something I need to see.’ I remember thinking, ‘We just created a miracle and you’re too disgusted by my body to watch it enter the world?’ He also insisted that I wore a t-shirt while I was in labour. I hadn’t packed one, so he gave me the one he had under his shirt. It was so tight on my big belly and felt uncomfortable. Also there was a strong smell of BO that made me feel sick. When I tried to take it off he said, ‘You’ll regret that. I was going to take a photo.’
My nudity makes him uncomfortable.
It’s not like my new stretch marks and flabby belly are going to help with that, is it?
‘You must have as much sex as you want,’ I say to Tommy, as he suckles. ‘Just make sure he or she is up for it, use a condom, and always say thank you.’ He looks up at me, and I think he understands.
‘Michael,’ I call, getting out of bed and laying the baby down.
‘You done?’ he asks, peeping his head around the door.
‘Yes, and I better get to work.’
He picks the baby up right away and burps him on his shoulder.
‘Cool,’ he says, leaving the room. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed.’
God forbid he sees me naked.
Ruby
Arriving at the nursery, Bonnie yells at me like I’m a wild bear she needs to scare away. I unstrap her from the hell of her pushchair. Almost as soon as she is free, she runs inside with a huge smile on her face, and straight over to a teacher. She hugs her. I have to look away.
‘They’re always hardest on their mums,’ says Miss Tabitha behind me. I had no idea she was there. I try to collapse the buggy, but something is stuck in the wheel and it won’t fold properly.
‘She’s good as gold when she’s here,’ she continues, twisting the knife further into my heart. I carried her in my belly. My body was sliced open to get her out. I’ve kept her alive for three and a half years. I sacrificed my work, I lost a husband. How does she think it is reassuring to hear that I am the only person to whom she expresses hate?
The buggy won’t close. I want to get out of this nursery and away from Miss Tabitha’s nonchalant and unhelpful support. I am so hot in this heavy velvet and the extra layer of insulation that lies beneath it. My stress levels are not something I can hide.
‘Can I help?’ she asks, infuriating me further.
‘No,’ I reply, sweat appearing on my forehead and dripping down my nose. I wipe it away with my billowing velvet sleeve.
‘Are you sure I can’t help?’ she says again, as if I’m an idiot. If she went away I’d be able to do this but she is standing over me like a teacher assessing my work. I am really struggling now. I know my rage is against me, and that if I stopped banging the bloody thing, took a breath and went at it a bit easier it would do what it normally does and just fold. But I’m annoyed, I am making a point and backing down isn’t part of my DNA.
‘DAMN IT,’ I shout, slamming the buggy down and kicking it with my foot. I try not to swear, even in times of high stress. There is a moment of stillness before I realise a few of the other teachers have joined Miss Tabitha, and that one of them has shut the door into the nursery to shield the children from my aggression. They presume I am about to apologise. I am not.
‘What are you looking at?’ I say, my top lip curling over my teeth like a wild cat’s. Something about the way I say this makes them all take a step back. A brave one starts walking slowly towards me with an extended hand.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I bark.
‘I’m not going to touch you,’ she says gently. ‘I’m going to collapse the buggy for you. There’s no need to be so angry.’
‘No need to be angry?’ She has no idea! I feel a hand on my back. ‘Leave me alone, please,’ I screech, launching myself forward and landing on top of the pushchair. With me lying across it, it shoots about four feet down the corridor and crashes into the wall. The skirt of my dress gets caught in the wheel. An ear-splitting ripping sound fills the hallway, and my dress is torn open from the hem to just above the knee. I’m left lying across the pushchair with my legs exposed. They can see my legs. I could react with tears or anger. I, as usual, choose the latter to mask the former.
‘Now look what you made me do!’ I yell, jumping to my feet, desperately gathering my torn skirt so I can hold it shut with my hands. They say nothing but look at me with as much disdain as their job description will allow.
I have to get out of here. I can’t face these women again. Not now they have seen my legs.
‘You know what? I’ve been unhappy with this place for a while. You feed them too many snacks. Bonnie never eats her dinner,’ I say, charging toward the closed nursery door.
‘Ruby, the children are about to start their music class. Let’s leave them to it, shall we?’
I ignore Miss Tabitha. I have to get out of here. They saw my legs. Oh God, they saw my legs. I open the door to the nursery, all of the children turning to look. I walk over to Bonnie and tell her to come with me.
‘No,’ she stomps.
‘Bonnie, come with Mummy please. It’s time to go.’
‘No. No,’ she screams, lying down flat on the floor.
‘Come on!’ I say, calm but stern, acting like I have a total grip of this situation. I am her mother. She can behave this way, but ultimately has to do what I say. I try again.
‘Up now please, Bonnie. We have to go.’
She is now cataclysmic. Screeching and writhing, desperate to be saved from the horror of more time with me. I feel the same agony, but I cannot back down. I keep hold of my skirt with one hand, not allowing the split to open again.
‘Right, Bonnie, enough!’ I say, as I pick her up with my spare hand. I don’t know how I manage it, sheer desperation maybe, but soon she is up and on my hip. She kicks and pulls but I hold her as tight as I can and I storm out of the room. Teachers try to stop me, but I need to get out of here. And I can’t come back. Not now they have seen my legs.
I pick the stroller up with my left hand and carry both Bonnie and it out of the door and on to the street. The split wide open. Why oh why would this happen on the day I didn’t wear tights?
I call Liam. The phone rings out. I call again. No answer. He texts immediately.
Sorry, in Amsterdam at this conference. Everything OK?
Damn it, I forgot he’s away this week. I tell him nothing is wrong. He replies again with a picture of a very unattractive dog he said he saw.
Can you show this to Bonnie? She loves a dog!
I don’t reply.
My phone rings out twice, then rings again. I’d put it back in my bag and am desperately trying to retrieve it while Bonnie screams in her buggy.
‘I want to go back to nursery,’ she chants. I want her to go back too, but I am too distressed to turn around. They think I’m crazy. They saw my legs. I can never go back. Ever.
By the time I find my phone I see that I have three missed calls from my mother. She hasn’t called me in around three months. Why now? It’s like she knows. I am having a disastrous parenting moment and she is right there to rub it in.
I struggle on for a while and we come to the entrance of a park. I push Bonnie in, and let her out of her buggy. She immediately runs off and starts collecting sticks and leaves, happy. I take a seat on a bench and call my mother back, taking in a long slow breath before I do.
‘Who is this?’ she asks when she answers. She is drunk, I can tell.
‘Hello, Mum, I saw that you called.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m in a park with Bonnie,’ I tell her, knowing this mood well, and knowing that detailed responses are pointless. ‘Just calling back to check you’re alive.’
‘Like you care, you little beast,’ she says, followed by a cackle so loud I put my hand over my phone to make sure no one else in the park hears it.
‘Don’t be unkind, Mother.’
‘What did you say?’ she asks, her tone instantly snapping into defence mode.
‘I said, please don’t be unkind. I don’t like it when you call me that.’
‘Oooo, she doesn’t like it when I call her that. She gets all upset. The poor ugly beast.’
‘Mother, did you want something specific because if not I am going to go.’
‘I’m going to kill myself,’ she says. Suddenly deadpan.
‘Don’t do that,’ I tell her, as I have done so many times over the years.
‘You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it tonight.’
‘No you won’t,’ I say.
‘Yes I will.’
‘Why?’ I ask her, wondering if this might be the one miraculous time I get an answer.
‘Shut up. It’s not like you care about me—’
I hold the phone away from my ear while she continues to rant abuse.
‘Are you done?’ I ask, after a minute or so. She seems to be and goes quiet. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’ I brace myself for the next stab.
‘Go on then. Piss off. If your own mother doesn’t love you, who will?’ she says, before hanging up.
