скачать книгу бесплатно
I feel tears begin to well in my eyes as I watch Bonnie play happily without me. I know the second I tell her we need to leave, she will act just like my mother does towards me. Screaming, kicking, yelling, telling me she doesn’t love me, acting like my very presence in her life is unbearable. I never imagined that becoming a parent would be like reliving my adolescence. Minus the cruel name at least. Mum has called me ‘The Beast’ ever since she burst in on me in the shower when I was sixteen. It’s why I never dare risk my own child seeing me naked. Who only knows what cruel salutations a toddler might come up with.
How does everyone else make parenting look so easy?
‘Move please,’ says a man who is standing in front of me, blocking my view of Bonnie.
‘Excuse me?’ I reply, with a certain amount of attitude.
‘Please move from the bench,’ he repeats. ‘Please.’
‘I absolutely will not move from this bench. I was here first. I’m watching my daughter.’
‘Look, I’d really appreciate it if you would go and sit over there. Please,’ he says calmly, still laden with something heavy. ‘You don’t understand. Please, just move.’
He points to an empty bench a few metres away. I can’t be bothered to fight him – I have had enough conflict for one morning and need a break. I gather my bag and the buggy and move a few benches down. Making sure he hears me say ‘Up yours’ as I go.
As I settle onto my new seat, I have one eye on him, and one eye on Bonnie. She is playing happily, so I concentrate most of my attention on the man. Is he trying to watch Bonnie play? He’s now revealed that he is carrying a packet of baby wipes. It’s very odd. I cautiously start to move towards my daughter, just in case.
But then he stands up and faces the bench. Using the wet wipes he cleans the bird poo and any other dirt off the slats. Scrubbing hard in places, polishing others. It is meticulous work. By the time he has finished, it is gleaming like the day it was painted. Satisfied, he sits on it and looks out at the park. I can see a million thoughts passing behind his eyes. I wonder what they are. Eventually, he stands up slowly and walks away; somehow, a little less upset than he was before. What an extraordinary show to witness.
I head straight over to the bench. A silver plaque is attached to the middle of it that I hadn’t noticed before.
Verity, loving daughter and sister. Gone too soon, forever missed and loved. Your spirit will always live in these gardens. 1989–1996
I sit on the bench and look over at Bonnie. Could the man be Verity’s father? I try to imagine losing Bonnie. Wondering how I would feel if all I had left were my memories and a bench.
I need to work harder at those memories.
2 (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Beth
Some days I get to work and spend the first thirty minutes looking at pictures of Tommy. I’ve got a box of disposable nipple pads in my drawer because every time I think about him my boobs leak. And I think about him a lot. Is organising weddings really the job that should take me away from my tiny baby? I mean, if I was a nurse, or an astronaut, or about to discover the cure for cancer then sure, get back to work and save the world. But I organise unnecessarily expensive weddings for extremely rich people. I’m selling a product I don’t necessarily believe in. Painting a picture of marriage as an idealistic partnership that begins with a party and stays just as joyous for years to come. But that isn’t the experience that I have had.
Hey Boss, had an email from a woman who has a budget of £5,000 but wants an entirely vegan wedding for 65 people. What do you think? No leather, organic fabrics, the whole shebang. What shall I tell her?
My assistant, ‘Risky’ (youngest of three, her parents let her siblings name her) emails me, despite sitting less than three metres away. She doesn’t remember a time when people didn’t have computers to communicate on their behalf. It’s like she forgets she can just talk to me. Sometimes, she even sends me an email, hears it ping into my inbox, watches me read it, then asks me what I think. It’s really extraordinary. I email back. I’m not the one who’s going to tell the future it’s wrong.
Tell her she can have whatever she wants. I’ll meet with her after ROD
ROD is the code we use for Lauren Pearce and Gavin Riley’s wedding. We tell them it stands for ‘Riley Order of Day’. But actually we call it ‘ROD’ because when we first got the job Risky said, ‘I’d love Gavin Riley to hot rod me.’ It made me laugh so much we named the project after it. It makes us chuckle, but if anyone realised what it really stood for they would probably get all offended. There isn’t much of a sense of humour in the serious world of celebrity. A lot of the time it’s like we are organising a political dinner. Lauren Pearce is so famous she thinks the government is bugging her phone. I’ve been sent more NDAs for this wedding than Trump’s cabinet give to their female staff.
Risky is beside herself about the entire wedding. She follows Lauren’s every move. She says she is her favourite ‘influencer’. If Lauren posts about a face cream, Risky buys it. If Lauren posts about anxiety, Risky eats a CBD gummy. This morning I had to sit through around forty seconds of Lauren pouting into the camera on her Instagram Stories. She was talking about some granola brand she has every morning. She did the whole thing with fake bunny ears and a twitchy bunny nose. There were also some love hearts floating across her face. She said this granola has helped her stay full until lunch time, and all the other advertising rhetoric breakfast brands rely on. I know it’s a lie, because I spent three months testing menus with Lauren and she doesn’t even eat breakfast.
I like Lauren though, I think. I mean, it’s not like I get much out of her. Considering her Instagram feed is largely posts about happiness, self-confidence and being grateful, she’s quite unassuming in person. I’ve not really had much alone time with her – her mother Mayra is usually with us. I get the impression their relationship is a little tense. I’ve worked with a lot of brides, and generally mothers are supporting figures who are just excited for their daughter’s big day. I’m sure Mayra is excited for Lauren, but she is very bossy. Some days it feels like it’s her wedding that I am organising. She’s the kind of woman I can imagine slapping me in the face if I forget to tell her she looks nice.
‘I’m getting that granola. It’s got dark chocolate in it, and that can boost your mood,’ Risky says, obviously back on Instagram and abandoning all work.
‘But don’t you think she’s only saying it’s good because she’s getting paid to say it’s good?’
‘No boss, Lauren only posts about products she believes in. That’s her promise to us.’
‘“Us”?’
‘Her fans.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I reply, pleased there is a clause in Risky’s contract that essentially says she isn’t allowed to lose her shit around celebrity clients. Risky has met Lauren twice, and both times this extremely effervescent, connected, confident and cool young woman has turned into a mute. She thinks Lauren is the Jesus of the social networks.
‘She understands mental health,’ Risky tells me often. ‘Her anxiety isn’t taboo. It’s inspiring. We have to talk about mental health more.’
‘Well, you are certainly flying the flag for that,’ I’d say, to which she looks proud of herself. She talks about her anxiety like it’s her pet cat. Something she needs to handle with care or it will scratch her eyes out. Something that is always tapping on her shoulder when she is trying to sleep. Something she has to keep under careful observation until it dies.
I don’t know what sounds worse, anxiety or marriage. I am glad I only suffer from one of them.
‘It’s OK for her to monetise her Instagram feed,’ Risky says, now applying some bright pink lipstick. ‘Why should she give so much of herself to us for nothing? And at least she isn’t just living off her rich husband. She’s paying her own way, I respect that. She’s a businesswoman really, showing us all that we shouldn’t be taken for granted.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,’ I say, putting on some mango-flavoured lip balm. Some of our chats make me feel so old. It’s strange to think of myself as a grown-up, but around Risky I feel positively ancient. When I was a teenager we had posters of celebrities we liked on our bedroom walls. They felt like untouchable gods. Now these people expose every inch of their lives on Instagram and reply to their fans. If Madonna had replied to a message I sent her in the Nineties, I might have imploded. I’m not sure how healthy all this direct access to famous people is, for either them or their fans. Risky is obsessed.
‘Well, I am grateful for her brand partnerships, because this wedding is going to cost more than North West’s fourth birthday party,’ I say, delighted with my cultural reference.
‘Um, boss. North West is already six,’ Risky says. I let the conversation dissipate naturally.
Lauren rather publicly turned down £600k from OK magazine, saying she didn’t want her big day to be about that. She then quietly signed a million-pound deal with Veuve Clicquot to live-post the wedding on her Instagram feed. I suppose she will be in more control of it now, but it all boils down to the same thing – an absolute abuse of privacy that you willingly sign up for, leaving you powerless to tell the press to back off. It’s not my job to judge, and I am making a fortune out of this wedding. I take twenty per cent of the whole cost, and the budget seems to increase every day. But I do think relationships are hard enough, without the public being involved. It can’t be easy when everyone wants to know all of your business.
A few years ago I did weddings for budgets of £30k or less. It took one influential guest at a wedding breakfast to think the beef pies were a revelation to book me for her daughter’s wedding (an IT girl, already divorced twice; third time lucky, I suppose) and that was that, I was catapulted into the world of high-budget nuptials.
While Risky pretends to work but actually tries to take surreptitious selfies ‘at work’/‘feeling hungry’/’hoping today is a good day’, I sit at my desk and try to look like I’m concentrating whilst scanning porn sites, to give my neglected clitoris a tiny thrill. I’m worried it might go into panic mode, break free from my cumbersome body and throw itself at random strangers if this drought carries on.
I think being starved of intimacy is why I currently have horn levels that seem impossible to control. I realise I only had a baby four months ago, and that my libido probably shouldn’t be this high. But it’s all I can think about. An obsession. It would be the same if I went on a vegan diet to lose weight; I would crave beef burgers and fantasise about dinner at Korean BBQ joints, where I’d get to dribble over the preparation of food as well as the joy of eating it at the end. The ultimate food experience, surely? My husband has put me on a brutal sex diet, and I am gagging for a three-course (at least) romp.
It’s been so long since we did it. Last time was right at the beginning of the pregnancy. As soon as my body started to change, Michael pulled back even more than usual. When this job came in, Lauren and her mother wanted to test menus from around fifteen caterers. I joined them, of course. I ended up trying everything on their behalf, as neither of them seem to eat anything apart from kale and tofu, and maybe granola if they are being paid. I was never exactly a slip of a thing, but two stone later (and no that wasn’t just the baby), I was pleased when they finally decided on a chef.
Michael suggested I employed a ‘food taster’ to do that job in future. To stop ‘this happening again’. By ‘this’ he obviously meant me putting on weight. I didn’t think it was a problem, really. All anyone else said to me when I was pregnant was that I was so lucky to be able to eat what I wanted. That I was eating for two. That I needed the calories.
Everyone except Michael. It gave him even more of a reason not to have sex with me. And then there was the pregnancy itself.
‘The baby, the baby, I don’t want to hurt the baby,’ he would say. I don’t know if that was genuine or not, but even our doctor’s assurance that the baby wouldn’t be damaged by his penis wasn’t enough to help. He just couldn’t do it. I’m not pregnant anymore, but he still acts like my vagina has teeth.
My nipples release some milk, as they seem to every time I think about sex.
‘Risky, where is my pump?’
‘Oh, I washed it for you,’ she says. She’s excellent like that.
Risky goes into the kitchen and returns with my electric breast pump. She is wearing an Eighties crop top today and high-waisted jeans. She is tall, slim, and loves neon. She’s not pretty, exactly. She has quite a big nose and her hair is damaged from over-dyeing. Her skin isn’t great, which is why she hangs off every recommendation Lauren and her filtered face make. Risky is attractive in her own magical way. Her style, quirks and personality are gorgeous. I quite like millennials, I’ve decided. I think maybe they will make the world a better place. Risky is certainly going to try.
She plugs in the pump, screws the bottles into place and gets it ready while I take off my top and bra – one of the benefits of being the boss at an all-female workplace. Before I was lactating, I’d often get to my desk in the morning and take my bra off right away. Heaven. I put on the weird elastic bra thingy I got that holds the bottles in place, so that I can pump whilst being hands free and getting on with work. Hardly any point in coming to the office at all, if I have to spend up to three hours of the day holding breast milk bottles into place.
‘I feel so hot right now,’ I laugh. Half naked at my desk. My tummy rolls hanging over my trouser waistband, my big boobs being sucked on by plastic funnels.
‘You’re amazing. A powerhouse. Nailing motherhood and running a business, it’s very inspiring,’ Risky says. She’s endlessly searching for role models to guide her, despite always reminding everyone of her independence. She is in a constant state of anticipation, waiting for someone she admires to say the thing that lifts her through her day. Some days, apparently, it’s me. Risky fantasises about a perfect future full of love and success, she believes in romance and is a true woman’s woman. ‘I’m from a generation of women who were born feminists,’ she likes to tell me. ‘Your generation had to learn to be.’ I often have to remind her that I am only thirty-six. She talks about her thirties like an event that will happen so far in the future, it is impossible to imagine.
‘Let me know when you’re done, I’ll get the milk in the fridge right away,’ she says, heading back to her desk. Just before she reaches it, she turns back and says, ‘It’s so great, you know. For you to have a husband who takes care of the baby while you go to work. I hope I find someone like that one day. I think both parents should make sacrifices for their children. That’s what we believe.’
‘We?’ I ask, unsure.
‘Feminists. Women, like us, who are in control of their lives. I’m going to talk about it on my podcast tonight.’
‘You have a podcast?’ I ask her. This is news to me. If I’m honest, I’m not even really sure what a podcast is, or why everyone suddenly has one. I don’t have high hopes for Risky’s. She is very sweet, and I know her heart is in the right place. But she generally has a lot to say about nothing. Her version of feminism is well-meaning, but quite innocent and inexperienced. She has absolute faith in all women.
‘Yup. I’ve done three episodes. My last one has had nearly eighty listeners.’
‘Wow, that’s huge,’ I say, offering nothing but encouragement.
‘Yup, I’m really brave with my subject matter. I say it like it is and I’m all about female empowerment and women supporting women, and all that stuff. And you’re such a big part of why I feel like one day I could have it all. A career, and baby, a marriage in which I am respected. You’re so lucky.’
To the sound of the low hum of my breast pump, I let those words linger in the air for a moment or two. She looks at me, love hearts and protest posters flashing in her eyes. A sparkling twenty-six-year-old whose dream it was to work for a wedding planning company, who thinks that one day her own marriage will be everything she ever dreamed of. Equal. I’m not going to be the one who tells her otherwise.
‘I sure am,’ I say. ‘Lucky, lucky me!’
Ruby
‘I have an eleven a.m. with Vera,’ I say to the receptionist, out of breath. I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain to get here this morning. I just need to get this done, and then I can calm down. I let Bonnie out of her buggy and tell her to sit on the sofa. I give her a bag of gummy bears to keep her busy. I ducked into a shop on the way here and bought nearly all of their confectionary to bribe her with for the next few hours. I need her to sit still.
‘Your name?’ the receptionist asks, even though I am here every five weeks and she damn well should know it. I put my Balmain handbag onto the desk. I find expensive handbags are a great distraction and a good way to gain status. I often present them to people when I don’t want the focus to be on me. She barely even looks at it, demonstrating a distinct lack of taste.
‘Ruby,’ I tell her, tapping my fingers on the counter. She’s wearing a very tight top and looks ridiculous. Her cleavage is staring me in the face. What is the point in dressing like that when you’re coming to work in a space where you’ll essentially only encounter women? Is it just so, on the off chance a man walks in, she is sex ready? I have half a mind to tell her she’s overexposing herself.
‘And your surname?’
‘For God’s sake, Blake,’ I say, with agitation. ‘Ruby Blake. Eleven a.m. with Vera.’
‘Oh yeah, there you are,’ she says, raising her eyebrows at my stress levels. ‘Vera left, I’m afraid. So you’ll be with Maron today.’
She has no idea of the impact of what she’s just said.
‘What do you mean, Vera left?’ Vera has been my technician for eight years. Only the second in my life. I trust Vera. Vera is the only thing that makes this process bearable. She is Russian and commutes from Wapping, there is no chance of me bumping into her outside of our sessions. That is very important to me.
‘Yup, our boss offered her a job in our Birmingham salon and she took it. Good for her. I’d have turned it down. I don’t know why anyone would choose Birmingham over London. All those motorways …’
‘Who is the Moron person?’ I ask, cutting her off. I couldn’t give a flying wax strip about how she feels about the traffic system in the West Midlands.
‘It’s Maron,’ she says, correcting me. I hadn’t actually meant to say Moron. I realise she thinks I’m horrible. I soften a little, trying to explain myself a bit better.
‘I would have appreciated being told about this before I arrived. I’ve been seeing Vera for years.’
‘Er, well, she only left a couple of days ago and we have a new technician who can do it for you.’
‘I had hoped that my loyalty would be treated in kind, do you understand that?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ she says, absolutely not sorry but wanting me to shut up. ‘Take a seat please. Maron will be with you in a minute.’
She is petulant. It annoys me. I revert back to my angry mode as I think this situation deserves it.
‘Do you understand why I’m annoyed?’ I ask.
‘No, we have someone who can do the procedure for you.’
‘It’s not about some random person, it’s about years of building a relationship with someone and not wanting to have to start all over again.’
I feel like a man who fell in love with his prostitute and asked her to go steady. Of course Vera didn’t care about me. She was just working.
‘I don’t know what to say, look into trains to Birmingham?’ the receptionist says, as if that is a reasonable suggestion. I need to get this done today. I will meet Maron, and try to cope. I look over to Bonnie. She is quietly eating her sweets. Sticking her finger into the bag, fishing one out, rolling it around her mouth then swallowing it, savouring every single one like it’s a bag of white truffles.
I sit next to her, take four Nurofen Plus, and wait. My heart is racing. Part rage, part fear. But I have no choice. Vera moved to Birmingham. I need to get this done.
‘Ruby?’ calls a tall blonde woman, who meets all the clichés of what a person who works in a beauty salon should look like.
‘Yes,’ I snarl, wishing I wasn’t so desperate. But knowing if I wake up like this again tomorrow I’ll smash my house to pieces.
‘Hi, I’m Maron. I’ll be taking care of you today.’ She holds out a hand for me to shake. It is soft and well-manicured. My hard, bony fingers rattle in her palm. ‘Want to follow me?’
I hate her instantly. I liked Vera. She was fat. When you live with a condition like mine, there is a lot of comfort to be had in spending time with other people who push the boundaries of what is considered attractive.
‘OK,’ I say, standing up, being brave. ‘Right, Bonnie. You wait here.’ I find an episode of Peppa Pig that I’ve downloaded onto my phone and give it to her. I leave the bag of snacks next to her, telling her she can have whatever she wants. ‘I might be a while, but I’m just in there and I’ll be right back. If the video stops, you press the triangle, OK?’
Bonnie isn’t listening to me, she is too engrossed. This feels stupid and weird and wrong. But I have to get this done today. I need it done. I follow Maron.
‘Um, excuse me,’ the receptionist calls after me. ‘You can’t leave her there.’
‘Why not? She’s fine,’ I say, knowing it’s not fine. Of course it’s not fine, I could be a couple of hours. I’m so stupid.
‘If we don’t accept responsibility for lost property, we surely don’t take responsibility for children. She’ll have to go in with you.’
That can’t happen.
‘Oh come on,’ I say, softly, knowing that she already hates me and no amount of sweet talk will help.
‘I can rearrange your appointment?’
I really need to get this done now. I can’t cope with it. I hate it. It’s making so feel horrible. I don’t want to feel this ugly. I don’t want to be this angry. But Bonnie is with me. This isn’t OK.
‘Can you get me in tomorrow?’ I ask, thinking that gives me twenty-four hours to find some childcare.
‘Sorry, the earliest I have is next Thursday.’
‘FUCK,’ I yell. Maron and the one with the chest look immediately over to Bonnie to see how much damage I did to her by swearing.
‘OK, OK, Bonnie, come with me please.’
