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I send it immediately to Michael. After a minute or so, a speech bubble pops up and I am excited to read his response.
Nice. Hey, can you grab some milk on the way home? We are out.
3 (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Ruby
After the wax disaster, Bonnie and I made an emergency detour to Boots to get some nappies and I sorted her out in a horrible cafe toilet about four streets from the salon. Far enough so that I didn’t have to worry about Maron or the receptionist popping in to get their lunch.
I get Bonnie a slice of chocolate cake the size of her head and tell her to eat it. She doesn’t need much persuading.
‘Mummy needs to work,’ I explain. I search for train times and prices to Birmingham. I’m not ready to give up on seeing Vera again for my treatments. But I’m looking at anything from fifty to a hundred pounds to get there. Plus the cost of the wax, which is generally in the hundreds for what I need. It would be an entire day, with travel and my appointment. This is not a reasonable option. I need to find another salon in London. And I need to find Bonnie another nursery. I’m never going back there either. I take a sip of black coffee and try not to think about the amount of sugar Bonnie has eaten today. More than I have in around four years. But I don’t see what else I could have done.
I see that I have an email from Rebecca Crossly about a job.
Hey Ruby, any chance of those images by end of play today? Editor is onto me about not touching up too much, the mag is under fire again for retouching. But if we don’t I’ll get blacklisted by the PRs. So, basically, rework but keep it natural, let’s try to get away with as much as we can. Just make sure you get rid of that scar. R x
Oh and make her less orange, she looks like an Oompa Loompa.
I tell her yes. Even though it will probably be tomorrow now. I’m the only retoucher Rebecca uses, so she has no choice but to wait. Rebecca is a photographer who is in high demand. I started working for her when she shot brochures for hotels around ten years ago. The level of hotel was very high-end – five-star resorts all across the world. I enjoyed it, making the sky bluer and the grass greener. She started getting work for magazines and kept throwing the work in my direction. A lot of food at first, some landscapes, but the jobs soon turned into people. I was excellent at retouching people because I had years of practice of making photographs of myself look nicer. I have a secret file on my computer – I named it ‘MENSTRUAL DIARY’ in case I die and someone gets into my computer and is tempted to look at them. The file is full of pictures of me that people took before I had the self-assurance to say no. They are hard to come by, but of course they exist. At university people used disposable cameras; I was lucky to be a student before the advent of camera phones and social media. I might not have survived that. I have a little shoe box – something I also hide – full of photographs. I scanned them all into my computer and worked them up into images I wouldn’t mind the world seeing. Of course I’d never show them to anyone, I couldn’t live that lie. Ironically, this doctoring is now exactly what I do for models and celebrities, who don’t have the same issue with dishonesty.
Rebecca now shoots for Vogue, Elle, Cosmo and any other publications that print photos of beautiful women who need to look even more beautiful. It’s a lot of work that’s kept coming my way. It’s hard to turn that down when you’re a single mother and need to pay for your three-bedroom Victorian terrace in Kentish Town, a love of antique furniture and a penchant for expensive handbags.
My job and my moral compass battle with each other every day. I know how much a negative body image can ruin a woman’s life, and here I am perpetuating the problem and giving that complex to millions of other women every single day. I get away with it because my name never appears anywhere. I am the silent partner in crime. The hidden face behind other people’s fake perception of beauty. I am the source of the problem.
As I am replying to Rebecca, Bonnie happily laughing into her wedge of cake, a surge of warm blood fills my knickers. Another devastating side-effect of my condition. Extremely sudden, heavy periods. I’m forty-three years old and I still have absolutely no grip on my menstrual situation. For someone who needs to feel control as much as I do, this is particularly punishing. It’s so hard for me to be positive about anything to do with the female condition.
‘Bonnie, come with me please.’
‘No.’
‘Bonnie, come on, you can finish your cake in a minute. Mummy needs to go to the toilet.’
‘NO,’ she says, not even looking up at me. Why can’t she just do as I ask, just once? Everything is always such a battle.
I pick up her plate, gathering my bags too. She goes to a level eight immediately. I walk backwards with the cake and she follows it like a horse chasing a carrot. Tears spouting from her eyes like a cartoon baby. When I reach the door I grab her by the hand and drag her in. I am past the point of caring what people think of me today.
In the cubicle, our third confined space of the day, I turn her around and give her the plate. She sits on the floor, and tucks back into her cake. It’s disgusting but she has stopped shouting. I can’t win at everything.
This is all so wrong. I hitch up my skirt, blood already escaping from my underwear. It’s always the same. An unpredictable tidal wave of horror.
Rooting around in my bag, I realise I have no sanitary towels with me. I don’t have the kind of flow any amount of scrunched-up toilet paper can deal with. I sit for a moment, thinking the unthinkable.
What choice do I have?
I put on one of Bonnie’s nappies.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren in front of a full-length mirror, her opulent bedroom in the background. Her clothes are on the bed; she chose not to wear them for this photo. Her pose isn’t particularly natural, suggesting it took a few goes to get it right. The angle of her body compliments her best bits.
The caption reads:
Aren’t women’s bodies amazing? Whether you love or hate the body you were born with we have to appreciate what they can do. I hope that one day this belly grows a baby, that these breasts feed it. Sometimes I forget that I am one of the most powerful things on this earth. Made to feel better with this gorgeous lingerie by #AllTheFrills. Underwear for women who want to feel their power. What makes you feel powerful? #AD #loveyourself #bodypositive #womensupportingwomen
@Hanngfer1: I WISH I WAS YOU
@peachybell2: Easy for you to say with a bod like that. If I wore those pants I’d look like a hippo at a fancy dress party.
@nevergonnabutimight: You’ve got no idea about power. You’re marrying power. Go get your botox redone and shut up.
@jessicachimesin: Thank you for being you. So inspiring to see a woman loving herself. You are everything I want to be.
@quertyflop: FAKE NEWS
Beth
After receiving Michael’s text, I slump into my chair. Risky clocks it.
‘Oh no, he didn’t like it?’ she asks, obviously seeing the heartbreak pouring out of my eyes.
‘No, he loved it. Yeah, I’m just nearly out of battery.’ She comes over to me with a charger and plugs in my phone. She has my back on so many levels. As she walks to her desk, I blur the lines of boss and employee as casually as I can.
‘So …’ I say, trying to be all blasé about it … ‘What kinda vibrator ya got?’
I nonchalantly start to finger some paperwork, and then bam, a small, pink-silicone, bullet-shaped battery-powered device is waved under my nose.
‘It’s the best!’ Risky says, testing its various speed levels. I am hoping she washed it. It is very close to my face.
‘Oh cool,’ I say. Choosing not to tell her I have never actually owned one.
‘Yeah, it’s small enough to fit in a clutch bag. I can take it everywhere.’
Seriously, how often does this woman need to orgasm?
‘Lovely. What brand is it?’ I ask, pretending not to care very much.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I got it on Amazon. I’ll send you the link.’ She skips back to her desk, but just before she sits down, she says, ‘Actually, you know what? I have another two at home. You have this one.’
She holds it out for me to take. I just stare at it.
‘Come on, have it.’
I pull my sleeve down over my hand and take the vibrator.
‘Thank you,’ I say, awkwardly.
‘Great. You’ll love it. Let me know when you’ve had a go.’
‘I absolutely will not.’
‘Beth, being a woman is hard enough, the least we can do for ourselves is make the most of the precious gift we were given.’
‘The precious gift?’ I ask nervously.
‘Yes, our clitoris.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’
She hasn’t finished.
‘So much of society is geared towards empowering the male sexual experience. The penis is overexposed. Figuratively and literally. The penis is unavoidable, therefore it gains power simply because of its literal presence in the room. Our vaginas are hidden away inside of us. They need to be released into the room. And that starts with us.’
She is standing up, looking thoughtfully into the middle distance like a footballer at the beginning of a game while the national anthem plays.
‘With us?’ I ask.
‘Yes, with us Beth. With “The Woman”.’ She comes to my desk and rests her elbows on it, her face quite close to mine. She continues with her manifesto. ‘We need to get the vagina out there, release it, and put it on the stage it deserves to be on. Squat over a mirror boss, squat right down and look directly into your vagina and say—’
‘OK, Risky, we really should—’
‘And say,’ she isn’t done yet, ‘“This is your stage, Queen.” And then give yourself a beautiful, stunning, full-body, full-throttle, full-vagina orgasm.’
‘OK, shall we crack on?’ I say, feeling quite uncomfortable now. I don’t think my assistant imagining me squatting over a mirror is going to create the ideal work dynamic. She finally snaps herself out of masturbation mode.
‘OK, I’m just going for a wee and then I’ll get back to the wedding of the year.’ She heads off towards the toilet. I watch her inquisitively.
‘I’m genuinely going for a wee this time!’ she says, clearing up any doubt.
I drop the vibrator into my bag.
Ruby
As I am walking Bonnie home, my phone rings in a strange way. When I get it out of my bag, my face is on the screen as though I am taking a photograph. I look revolting. Liam is calling me on FaceTime. He has never done this. I do not use FaceTime. This sends me into such a tizz that I accidentally answer it, the camera shooting directly up my nose. I immediately panic about stray hairs on my chin. I plan to hang up but he yells ‘Hello!’ loud enough for Bonnie to hear him, and now I am forced to keep the conversation going.
‘Liam, why are you calling me in this way?’ I ask, holding the phone above my face and as far away as I can. One benefit of my job is I know which camera angles are flattering. Not that any camera angles are flattering on my face. I photograph like a dying horse. Why the hell would he FaceTime me, has he lost his mind? I turn so the sun isn’t shining directly on my face, that is a sure fire way to highlight any hair.
‘I miss you guys,’ he says in his usual bouncy and chipper way. He said ‘you guys’ for Bonnie’s benefit – we do try to sound affectionate in front of her.
‘Liam, this really isn’t a good time,’ I lie. We have no plans, we are heading home to watch TV; it’s actually a great time for him to call.
‘Give the phone to Bonnie,’ he asks, realising I am a lost cause for conversation. I do as he asks. They chat for a few moments about his travelling. He makes multiple stupid faces, which she thinks are hilarious. He asks her questions about what she is up to, and she says she misses him and my heart thumps, because I know she would never say that to me. I stand impatiently waiting for them to end their sweet and emotional chat. A part of me pleased she has him to encourage that side of her, the other part of me wishing I was better at all this.
‘OK, I love you Bon Bon, give the phone back to Mummy.’
Bonnie shoots her hand up into the air and I take my phone back, quickly holding it at an angle that does not involve a close-up of my chin.
‘OK, done?’ I ask him, unnecessarily sternly.
‘Actually, one of the guys at this conference invested in that new animated movie, Forever Never. He’s given me tickets for the premiere this weekend. He gave me three, I thought you might like to come with me and Bonnie?’
He keeps doing this. Asking me to go on little jollies with him and Bonnie. He is trying to make up for what he did, I know it. Like going to watch a movie together will take away the pain and humiliation of my wedding day. The day he ruined my life. It won’t work.
‘A cartoon? I can’t, sorry.’
‘OK, are you sure? I mean, it’s a movie. You wouldn’t have to talk to me. Come on Ruby, it would be nice for Bonnie to have us all together,’ he says, speaking more quietly, so I have to bring the camera closer to my face, which I hate.
‘No, Liam, I can’t. I have Bonnie all week, I need a break at the weekend, OK? It’s what we agreed.’
‘Actually, it’s what you agreed, but OK,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘I just thought it would be nice.’
‘Well like I said, I can’t. OK? Anything else?’
‘No, other than, you look nice.’ He smiles; it’s confusing. I don’t like it. I catch sight of my face on my phone, I look horrible.
‘OK, well if you’re done then have a safe trip back and we’ll see you on Friday at six p.m., on the dot. Wave goodbye to Daddy, Bonnie.’ I turn the phone back to her, let Bonnie wave, then cut Liam off half way through him telling her he loves her. Which makes me feel nasty.
When we arrive home, Bonnie is coming down off the additives and sugar she’s eaten today. She’s falling asleep in her buggy. It’s one p.m., I’ll stick her in front of the TV, and I’ll get some time off to work on the images Rebecca sent through. Then I’ll feed Bonnie some fish fingers and vegetables.
I unstrap her and carry her to the sofa. She’s too tired to fight me. I put her head on a cushion, get Peppa Pig on, lay a blanket over her and let her be. I should get an hour of peace, maybe two if she goes back to sleep. I haven’t spent an afternoon with her in so long, I’m not even entirely sure if she naps anymore. It strikes me that that is terrible.
In the kitchen, I take off the tights. It’s a hot day, I’m sweating and plan to get my dressing gown on now I don’t intend to leave the house again today. I put both hands on the edge of the sink and take a second to think and breathe. Today has been awful. So the last thing, and I mean the absolute last thing, I need to see right now is a mouse run across my counter top, fall off it, land on the floor and disappear into a hole smaller than my finger.
‘NO!’ I yelp.
My fear of rodents is a close second to my fear of anyone seeing me naked. I cannot cope with them. I hate them. I hate them so much. I run to the dining table and clamber up onto one of the chairs. The mouse runs across the floor again. It disappears and I convince myself it’s crawling up my dress. I feel like I’m covered in mice. I pull my dress up over my head, getting stuck in it because I forgot to unzip. I’m trapped inside metres of thick velvet. My hands are fighting to get me free. The chair starts to wobble, I can’t steady myself. I fall, crashing to the ground, smacking myself on the floor, my dress coming over my head.
‘Mummy?’
Bonnie’s voice becomes clearer as my hearing returns. I must have been knocked out for a second because I hardly know where I am. I rummage around with my dress until I find a gap for me to look through. Nothing is broken, I don’t think. I pat my thigh with my hand and realise my dress is around my neck and my body is completely exposed. My arm hurts. I can’t cover myself. Instead, I freeze.
‘Mummy?’ Bonnie says again, looking at me with something between disgust and fascination on her face. For the first time in her life she gets to see what I have been hiding. My thin, skeletal frame, covered with thick black hair, starting at my chest and covering my stomach and my back and going all the way down to my ankles. Today, as if to add insult to injury, there’s the addition of a Pampers Baby Dry, heaving with blood.
I lie still, surrendering to the shame as my daughter takes it all in. I remember my mother’s face the time she burst in on me in the shower when I was sixteen. At first she looked disgusted, then pleased. Pleased she had discovered something she could taunt me with for the rest of my life.
Bonnie has an unidentifiable look on her face. I’ve hidden my naked body from her for three and a half years. Even when she was a tiny baby I turned her bouncer to face the wall when I was getting dressed. I didn’t want to frighten her or give her a complex about what she might become. I established a no-nudity clause when I became a parent, and I have never, ever broken it. Until this moment.
‘Bonnie, sitting room, now.’
She stares at me. What do I see in return? Shock? Disgust? It’s hard to tell.
‘Please, Bonnie. Mummy will be in in a minute.’
She doesn’t move. Her eyes water a little, she is pale. I think of the mouse. I have to get off the floor. It isn’t easy, my arm is starting to throb. Just as I get myself to a seating position, Bonnie’s mouth opens, and a stream of hot vomit shoots all over me. Chunks of undigested chocolate cake and half-chewed Percy Pigs cling to the hair on my stomach and shoulders, pooling into my lap and resting on the blood-soaked nappy.
I poisoned her with sugar.
