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So Lucky
Dawn O’Porter
‘A total joy’ Matt Haig ‘Very, very funny’ Sara Pascoe ‘Thought-provoking’ Daily Mail ‘Unputdownable’ Marian Keyes Fearless, frank and for anyone who’s ever doubted themselves, So Lucky is the straight-talking new novel from the Sunday Times bestseller. IS ANYONE’S LIFE... Beth shows that women really can have it all. Ruby lives life by her own rules. And then there’s Lauren, living the dream. AS PERFECT AS IT LOOKS? Beth hasn’t had sex in a year. Ruby feels like she’s failing. Lauren’s happiness is fake news. And it just takes one shocking event to make the truth come tumbling out… The bold and brilliant new novel from Dawn O’Porter, the bestselling author of The Cows.



SO LUCKY
Dawn O’Porter



Copyright (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Dawn O’Porter 2019
Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Jacket photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Dawn O’Porter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008126070
Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008126087
Version: 2019-09-24

Dedication (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Dedicated to all the Janes in my life

Epigraph (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
LUCK [n] /:
Success or failure apparently brought by
chance rather than through one’s own actions.
Everyone else is OK
Everyone else’s life is perfect
Everyone is talking about me
Everyone has this figured out except me
Everyone knows I can’t do this

We are all SO LUCKY.
What could we possibly have to complain about?
Everyone has their shit
Everyone needs to be kinder to themselves
Everyone’s in the struggle together
Everyone isn’t me
Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about …
Contents
Cover (#u8aab8332-d072-5beb-9334-9a9a9d57c8b4)
Title Page (#udc1dc8bc-5618-5a1d-ada5-8c62c807f65c)
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgements
Don’t miss the ‘So Lucky’ podcast series
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by Dawn O’Porter
About the Publisher

1 (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Ruby
My kid moved out the day she was born. For someone like me, becoming a mother was when I thought I’d finally give my whole self to another human without being constrained by the limitations of my condition. I thought my undying love for this little person would be met by her needing me in a way I had never been needed before. But as it turns out, I’m not sure my kid has ever needed me other than in a physical capacity to keep her alive. Being a mother hasn’t been the sweet experience I imagined it to be. In fact, my kid is an asshole. Some might say she gets it from me.
It’s 7.05 a.m. I am lying on my bed and she’s screaming like she’s being attacked in the next room. She isn’t being attacked, she is fine. She doesn’t sleep in a cot, she knows how to get up. But still, she shouts and screams until I go into her room. Only to tell me to get away from her when I do.
I didn’t want a girl. I wanted a boy. I have no idea how to teach a girl to love herself. I thought, if I had a boy, then Liam could just take care of that side of things. I also don’t like how manipulative women are. I didn’t realise it started so early.
I reach for my dressing gown that I keep on the other side of the bed. It’s no substitute for a husband, but at least it’s something to wrap around my body when I wake up in the morning. My dressing gown is one of the few things I adore. It’s a 1970s terry-towelling, full-length, high-necked, long-sleeved Victorian-looking thing that hides almost every inch of my body other than my face and neck. I spent ages looking for the perfect one, nothing modern had the same coverage. It means I can answer the door before I get dressed, should someone come knocking. I often wonder who the woman who owned it before me was, as it came with certain signs of wear and tear. Did she also feel the need to hide herself in her own home? Did she have children who loved her? Did she live a life of self-inflicted solitude? Liam hated this dressing gown, but I saw it as my only option after what he did to me on our wedding day.
Getting Bonnie dressed every morning is on a par with being in one of those shark cages, and the shark getting into it with you. She kicks me directly in the chest and stomach. She’s bitten me a number of times. She tries to get away, and I have to pull her back and hope to God I don’t dislocate a shoulder or hip.
I love her, of course. But I don’t love parenting. People tell you not to wish it away. They say I’ll miss her being small. I won’t. I will never miss this. Living with a toddler is like living with someone with a complete lack of empathy. Something I swore I wouldn’t do again, when I moved out of home, and moved away from my mother.
Monday mornings are always the hardest, especially after she has spent the weekend with her dad. Liam doesn’t bother with the boring stuff. He lets her eat what she wants, he lets her stay up late watching TV until she falls asleep. He doesn’t bother bathing her or brushing her teeth. Which means that when Bonnie comes back to me she is sticky to the touch, with a yellow smile and dreadlocks in her hair. I am the one who then has to force her into the bath. The one who has to brush out the knots. The one who has to scrape the fur from her teeth. The one who ruins the fun.
I put the TV on for her while I make her breakfast. I don’t like preparing food, even if it is for my child. I hate a lot of things I am supposed to like – especially when it comes to being a mother, but also just life in general. I don’t like self-help, self-care, the ‘mum scene’ or social media. I hate politics, and the way it divides people. I hate football for the way it brings people together, but still puts them on opposite teams. I hate how a woman with her top off is more likely to sell a packet of mints than a woman with her top on. I hate how the male gaze is still more powerful than a woman’s self-worth.
I hate how the male gaze so rarely comes in my direction. I hate how when it does I bat it away like a bug that might sting me.
I hate so many things. I hate that after my appointment I’ll spend the day making a young girl look thinner and smoother when there was nothing wrong with her in the first place. I hate that my job has become this. I hate that I am part of the problem I am so upset about, but keep doing it because I am too afraid to try anything else.
My daughter calls me from the other room where she is watching TV. She tells me she hates the programme she is watching and wants something else. I change it and tell her she shouldn’t use the word hate. I remind her that she has many more options in her lexicon that she can use to describe how she feels about something, and that she should be more clever with her choice of them.
I hate that I talk to her like that when she is only three and a half.
I call Bonnie into the kitchen for breakfast. She says she isn’t hungry and doesn’t feel well. I put my hand on her forehead; she’s fine. I put Octonauts on and give her a bowl of dry cereal to eat on the sofa while I go and get dressed. I hate that I am not the kind of mother who puts my arms around my child and tells her everything is going to be OK.
My appointment is at eleven. After that, things will feel better.
There is only one dress to wear when I am at this stage of the cycle – my burgundy velvet maxi dress with high neck and long bell sleeves with elasticated wristbands. I made it myself when I was at university and it still fits perfectly. I’m the same size at forty-three as I was at twenty-one. That takes a certain amount of effort. When you have a condition like mine, you do what you can to keep the symptoms minimal. Low weight is key. I eat like a bird and exercise for at least an hour a day. But in the privacy of my own home, of course. Someone like me can’t go to a gym. I purchased myself an exercise bike with a computer screen attached to it, so I can do classes with real-time instructors. I noticed a little camera at the top of the screen. It is disabled, but I put some gaffer tape over it just in case. I kept imagining someone being able to see me on my bike. I couldn’t take the risk that maybe they could. That is quite possibly the most horrifying thing I can imagine.
My burgundy dress says a lot about who I am. It all came together for me when a guy I’d had dinner with a couple of times once described me as an ‘Amish Virginia Woolf’. He wasn’t being kind. But, I actually loved the description. I feel a deep connection to Virginia Woolf. It’s comforting to know that genius can lie in the socially impaired.
‘Amish Chic’ became my look. I make most of my own clothes now. Long, gothic velvet gowns. High necks, long sleeves, frills down each breast, a pinched-in waist and long, heavy skirts. I wear black pointy boots with a low heel that lace up the front and finish just above the ankle. My skin is pale, I wear a lick of mascara, some heavy blusher and try to match my lips to my dress whenever I can, usually burgundy. I may or not wear tights, depending on where I’m at in the cycle. But the uniform remains the same. I made a number of thick cotton versions of the dress for the summer months. Pale blue, a floral, but nothing too bold. Vintage Laura Ashley fabrics are my style, I buy them on eBay. The boots remain the same, no matter the dress or weather. I have repulsive feet. If someone wanted to torture me they would abandon me on a packed beach with a bikini and flip-flops on. I’d likely get into the sea and swim as far away from the shore as I could, hoping to one day reach a deserted island, where I would make a thick dress out of sheets of seaweed and hide in caves at the very hint of life on the horizon. I’m not a summer person. It is now June in London and some days are sweltering. If it’s really hot I tend to stay at home as much as I can. One of the reasons I am so locked into my job is that it gives me very little reason to leave the house. I invested in an air conditioning unit last year, which has made the hot summer months much more bearable. Other than getting Bonnie to and from nursery, I have very little reason to go out unless it’s social, which is a rare occurrence in itself, but of course I do have friends. To be fair to myself, I am very consistent and I offer very comforting advice to people when they need it. I’m quite proud of that.
Loading Bonnie into her buggy takes a moderate amount of strength on my part. I have to press her down just below her belly button, so that I can get the straps on her and secure her properly. She is particularly unpleasant this morning. I say her name over and over – ‘Bonnie, get in now. Bonnie. Bonnie, sit down!’ – all the while regretting it. It has never felt natural for me to call her Bonnie. It’s a curse of a name, meaning beautiful. An unfair pressure to put on a young girl. It was Liam’s grandmother’s name, and it meant a lot to him to pass it on. I agreed, but only if she had my surname. Liam didn’t argue with that bit at all. I hate how progressive he was about so many things.
She is quite small for her age, but very strong. It takes a minute, but soon enough I have her in. I give her a box of raisins to distract her and somehow we manage to get out of the house.
When she finishes the raisins she throws the box onto the street and demands more. I don’t have any, so I ignore her and keep pushing. It’s a ten-minute walk to her nursery and I walk fast to burn off the toast and Marmite I had for breakfast. Bonnie gets more and more upset, eventually becoming physical. She launches herself backwards and forwards in the buggy, then from side to side too, trying to get herself free.
‘I want to walk,’ she yells between long, ear-splitting screams. It’s the same every morning.
‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ I say to a mother who looks at my child pitifully. ‘If I let her out we will never get there.’ She makes some stupid face that implies I am being cruel, then walks off. Her snotty little brat following in tow. The self-righteousness of parenting is what grates on me the most. I avoid other mums as much as I can.
‘She’s fine,’ I bark at someone else who thinks coming over and saying, ‘Ahhhhhh,’ and smiling at my crazy child is in some way the right thing to do. It is patronising and insincere. There is nothing to ‘Ahhhhhh’ about when a toddler is being a level ten.
‘Maybe she’s hungry,’ says an old lady waiting at a crossing next to us. I was doing OK until she weighed in.
‘Oh, you think maybe I should consider feeding my child?’ I ask. She doesn’t get my sarcasm.
‘Yes, the poor little thing is probably starving.’
‘Oh, well silly me. Forgetting to feed my child.’ I could stop there, but why would I do that? ‘There was me, listening to her delicate little screams, wondering what on earth could be the matter when all the while all I had to do was feed her. How could I have been so thick?’
The old woman looks at me with fear in her eyes. To be fair, I have gotten quite close to her face. I don’t like old ladies and the way they act like they’ve got all the answers.
‘Up yours,’ I say, crossing the road. It’s a retro phrase I use a lot. Firm, offensive but not sweary enough for people to ring an alarm. I find it very useful. I occasionally add a finger.

Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren in her kitchen holding a large glass filled with something green. She is wearing jeans and a tight pink shirt. She is fully made-up with perfectly highlighted blonde hair.
The caption reads:
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.
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.’
She doesn’t move.
‘Bonnie, here, NOW.’
She still doesn’t move. So, muttering more swear words under my breath, I pick up all of the treats and my phone and drag her kicking and screaming into the treatment room. Maron points to a chair she can sit on. I face it towards the wall, sit her in it, load her up with snacks, give her back the phone, and ask Maron to leave so I can get undressed.
She does.
This is all wrong.
I take off all of my clothes except my underwear and lie on the bed, placing the pointless and tiny towel over my crotch. Vera always knew to give me a bigger one. I look at the back of my daughter’s head, begging her not to turn around. She can’t see this. She can’t know. A bad smell fills the room.
‘Ready?’ asks Maron, tapping on the door and opening it a crack before coming in. I brace myself for the inevitable reaction to the sight she’s greeted with, but she doesn’t even flinch when she looks at me. I don’t know what to do with that. There is no point in being in attack mode if no one is trying to attack you.
‘Oh dear, it smells like someone has had a little accident,’ Maron says, acknowledging the smell radiating from Bonnie. I realise I have no nappies; in a rush this morning, I’ve left the nappy bag at home.
‘She’ll have to wait now,’ I say, lying back, submissively giving my body to Maron. She’s seen it now, there is no point in me resisting her.
‘Oh it’s OK, you don’t need to leave her with a poo in her nappy. I can wait,’ she says, making me feel like the cruellest mother imaginable for making my child sit in a dirty nappy while I get what is, essentially, a beauty treatment. But I insist she must just get on with it.
‘OK, let’s get going, shall we, so you can freshen her up.’ Maron lights a candle, which helps with the smell. My torture is about to begin.
‘Please go as quickly as you can,’ I ask her.
I lay my head to the side, away from Maron. She gets the things she needs to start the procedure.
‘So is she your only one?’ Maron asks, nodding in Bonnie’s direction.
‘Yes,’ I reply in my blandest voice. I don’t want to talk. Vera understood that.
‘How old is she?’
‘Three and a half.’ Is she serious, she thinks I am here to make friends?
‘Do you think you’ll have another one?’
‘No,’ I say, sharply. Why do women always presume that other women want to talk? And why, when you only have one kid, do people always ask if you want more? As if having one isn’t enough, that having siblings would be better for them. As an only child, I resent this question, as the subtext is that I myself missed out on something and that I am damaged as a consequence.
‘She’s such a good girl, what’s her name?’
‘Bonnie,’ I reply, as monotone as I can. Not wanting to invite more chat. Maron stirs the wax, and loads it onto a wooden spatula. ‘It’s a little hot, give me just a second.’ She says, dragging out my misery. ‘That’s such a pretty name.’
I regret it more and more every time someone says that.
‘You’re lucky,’ she says. Which makes me want to stick a wax strip on her face, yank it off, and see how lucky she feels.
‘Lucky?’ I ask. Fascinated by whatever stupid logic she has for such a statement.
‘Yes. You’re lucky. My cousin has this condition too. She’s how I got into waxing. I used to get rid of her hair for her in school. I got pretty good at it quite quickly. She’s married now and can’t get pregnant. And look at you with your beautiful daughter. You’re lucky.’
‘Sounds like she dodged a bullet,’ I say, turning away.
Maron doesn’t have a comeback for that. She takes a few moments to think of another deeply personal question. I don’t know why beauty therapists, hairdressers, dentists or anyone at all who is being paid to do a service think that women come to these appointments to have their lives interrogated. It drives me mad.
‘So how was the birth? I looove talking about birth,’ she says excitedly.
‘Why, have you done it?’
‘No, but I can’t wait to.’
I sometimes find the best way to end a conversation is to say something unpleasant.
‘Birth was awful. The worst experience of my life, and that’s saying something.’ I hope that will shut her up, but if there is one thing I have learned about Maron in the few moments I have known her, she doesn’t shut up.
‘Oh no, why?’
‘Really? You want to know?’
‘Yes, I think it’s important to hear all birth stories, it’s research. If I know all eventualities then I won’t be scared if they happen, right?’
‘OK, well I’d been hoping to have her naturally.’
‘Wow, good for you.’
‘Yeah, well I’m terrified of medical intervention, so I didn’t think I had much choice.’
‘OK, and did you do it?’ she asks, stirring the wax and testing it on her hand. She seems more satisfied with the temperature now.
‘No, I had to have a C-section in the end,’ I say, flashing back to the trauma. Seeing myself, naked, surrounded by strangers. Humiliation crippling me.
I’d booked a full body wax for two weeks and one day before my due date. After a treatment I have around two and a half weeks of being hair-free before it starts to grow back. So if Bonnie was on time, I’d be good. If she was late, even by two weeks, I would be hairy, but it wouldn’t be its maximum thickness. It was the best I could do.
Bonnie came two weeks and two days early. I was fully hirsute. Thick, black, bear-like hair all over my body. Between my breasts, around my nipples, all over my abdomen, my back. My pubic hair thick down to my knees, heavy fur toward my ankles. When I went into labour I cried. I knew countless people were about to see my body and I panicked. My cervix did too, clamming up so tight Bonnie had no chance of getting out. I tried for hours, but she wouldn’t come. The hospital lights were bright, I begged for them to go down. They insisted they needed to see. Liam did his best to comfort me, but I screamed at him and made him feel as redundant as I did ugly. I heard a nurse say, ‘This is the most primal birth I have ever seen.’ Meaning it was like watching an actual ape give birth. I felt repulsive. So self-aware. Everything you shouldn’t have to feel in that moment. I wanted to be alone. To disappear into a dark corner and get my baby out by myself. I swear if I had been in the wild, it would have been OK. But there were people everywhere and no matter how much I screamed at them to leave me they wouldn’t. After fifteen hours of active labour, the doctor insisted I had a C-section. I was wheeled down the corridor. More bright lights. They had to shave my belly to get her out.
‘Well, at least you got her out safe,’ Maron says, snapping me out of my memory. ‘Well done you, birth is beautiful no matter how it happens,’ she continues, her young, ignorant mind speaking on her behalf.
Beautiful is not a word I would use to describe any aspect of my birth experience. I have never felt so ugly as I did in the hours that followed, either. My stomach was covered in stubble. I couldn’t breast feed Bonnie because I worried it would scratch her on the back of the head. They wanted to shave my nipples so she could latch on. I couldn’t cope with getting my boobs out in front of people anymore. The hair between them thick, the hair on them thicker. So I stopped, and asked for a bottle. Liam gave her the first feed. I just stared and watched, feeling like my entire world had been shattered. All that, just to hand her to someone else. I had already failed her in the first few hours of her life. It would only be downhill from there. My mother always liked to tell me I destroyed her body during childbirth. I don’t plan to ever inform Bonnie of the destruction she caused. There is no need to lay that guilt on an innocent child who didn’t ask to be born.
Maron lays the warm wax on my lower calf, presses the fabric down onto it, then rips the hair out of me. It’s not too bad. I know that the further up my leg she gets, the worse it will be.
She clearly cannot work in silence.
‘You OK there, Bonnie, can I get you anything?’
‘Don’t talk to her,’ I snap. ‘I don’t want her to—’
Bonnie turns around.
‘NO,’ I shout, leaping off the bed and trying to hide behind it. ‘NO, stay where you are.’
Bonnie drops my phone and when she picks it up Peppa Pig has disappeared. She screams and demands it is put back on. I can’t reach the phone. The smell is worse now she is moving around. I don’t want to come out from the other end of the bed. I can’t let Bonnie see my body. She ramps the tantrum right up, chucking my phone at the wall. It lands on the floor and I see that it is cracked. Bonnie falls to the floor and starts hammering her fists. It’s a tiny room, there are three of us in it, it’s so hot.
‘Give me a robe,’ I scream at Maron, who pulls one off from behind the door and throws it at me. I put it on, come out from behind the bed and get Peppa Pig back on my phone. Bonnie goes back into her trance. I feel ugly and ridiculous.
‘Shall we carry on?’ Maron asks softly, her awkwardness hanging in the air. But the reality hits me. I could be here for hours. Bonnie will never sit here for that long. Not with a dirty nappy. She should be potty trained, it’s my fault she isn’t. I tried a few months ago but it was awful. I don’t know when I’ll be able to face it again. I’m sure Maron is judging me for that.
‘Please get out,’ I say to her. ‘I need to get dressed.’ She does as I ask. I turn Bonnie back to face the wall and put my torn dress and thick black tights back on. One stupid wax strip’s worth of hair missing.
‘You ruined that for me,’ I snap at my child. My poor child, who didn’t ask to be here. Who is off her head on sugar, her bottom probably starting to sting. ‘Come on.’
Bonnie and I go back to reception. I strap her into her buggy, and with as much attitude as I can muster, I ask the receptionist how much I owe, accepting that I took up a reasonable amount of their time.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ says Maron, with a look of sympathy on her face. Sympathy that I do not want.
‘Do you want me to reschedule your appointment?’ the receptionist asks.
‘Is Vera coming back?’ I snap, making a point of being dissatisfied with the service.
‘No,’ she tells me.
‘Then no, absolutely not. I will take my loyalty elsewhere.’
I turn and push Bonnie out onto the street. I am still hairy and I have no childcare. This is so unbearably awful.
As I get down the street I wonder, how must that have looked? To be so afraid of my daughter seeing me without my clothes on that I tried to hide behind a bed?
Maron must think I am a lunatic.
Yet it isn’t her opinion that matters. Bonnie thinks I am cruel. I shout at her. I tell her not to look at me. I push her away emotionally, sometimes even physically, and all so I can hide inside the prison of my own body.
How is that any different to what my own mother did to me?
I’m not sure it is.

Beth
I read on the Cosmo website that love and desire are two separate things in a marriage. That love is the easy bit, but desire is the challenge when you spend a lot of time with someone. The trick is to keep desire going, and to do that you have to reinstate some mystery. A distraction from the thing they have become accustomed to. Something new that makes them see your body in a new and exciting way.
Right now, all my body is to Michael is a car crash after childbirth and a milk machine keeping our baby alive. I am functional, not sexual. Maybe all I have to do is make him look twice?
While Risky is in the toilet, I use my arms to push my boobs together and create a cleavage. I take a selfie with a seductive pout. It does not turn out how I expect it would. My boobs look lop-sided and my eyes deranged. Risky takes selfies at her desk all the time, she makes it look so easy. I try again. Even worse. My lips don’t look sexy. I look like I’m trying to scratch my nose with my mouth. I go for more of a smile, but that’s just weird. How do people make this look so natural?
‘Boss, what are you doing?’ Risky asks, coming out of the toilet. I hadn’t heard her flush. Did I miss it? Weird. Anyway, I put my phone down and give up.
‘Were you taking a selfie?’ Risky almost whispers it, like she’s discovered my dark secret.
‘I may have been.’
‘Wow, I’ve never seen you take a selfie, ever. Were you going to post it?’
‘No, I was going to send it to Michael,’ I say, sounding ridiculous. ‘But I look like a deformed butternut squash in them so let’s just move on.’
‘No way. I am the selfie queen. I’m going to teach you.’
This is ridiculous.
‘Risky, we have a high profile wedding in under three weeks. We do not have the time for a selfie masterclass,’ I say, actually really wanting to know how to make myself look sexy in a photo.
‘Tough. It’s happening.’ Risky sits at her desk and holds her phone in her hands. ‘OK, copy everything I do. Hold your phone up a bit, you’ll look thinner.’
I do as she says, and hold the camera around twelve inches higher than my face.
‘OK, now look at it like it’s just caught you masturbating but you don’t mind because you kind of want it to join in.’
‘What? Risky, come on!’
‘What? There is nothing wrong with masturbating. I just masturbated in the bathroom. So don’t be ashamed of pretending to masturbate, that’s just crazy.’
I put my phone down.
‘I’m sorry, you just what?’
‘I just masturbated in the bathroom. I do it loads at work. It gives me a burst of energy in the afternoon. It’s better than a Mars Bar, isn’t it?’
‘Better than a Mars Bar?’ Sometimes I think Risky is another species.
‘I guess so,’ I say, and I must look a little disgusted because she somehow feels the need to continue talking about masturbation.
‘Seriously, boss, we’re two women who share an office. If we can’t be open about self-pleasure here, where can we be? We need to abolish the stigma surrounding female masturbation. The silence around it has gone on long enough. I take my vibrator everywhere with me, just in case.’
‘Just in case of what?’
‘Just in case I need it. You know when you become so consumed with the need to come that you have to duck into the nearest room and bring yourself off just to get through the rest of your day?’
I do know that feeling. I feel it almost every day. The difference between me and Risky is that I have attached so much of my sexuality to my husband that I forget I have the power to satisfy myself sometimes. Rather than tell my assistant that, though, I try to bring the focus back to our job.
‘OK, anyway, we should do some work.’
‘Not before we nail this photo. Phone up, channel your inner Princess Diana – is that a better reference for you, she was big in the Eighties, right?’ I nod and do as she says. It might make me feel old, but I know exactly what she means in terms of the bashful but slightly suggestive look Diana would probably have given her phone, should they have existed when she was alive. ‘Now drop your head more to the left. Give a little smile, like you’re thinking naughty thoughts, and take the photo.’
I do it. And have to admit, the photo is really nice.
‘Wow, I look hot,’ I say. Risky rushes over to look. When she sees it she makes all sorts of ‘Look at you, you saucy minx’ type comments, before snatching the phone from me.
‘OK, we need a filter. And a slight tone change. Let me just … and … yup … that’s it … Oh my God, look at it in black and white.’ She hands it back to me. I really do look amazing in black and white.
‘Cor, thanks, Risky. I look so hot even I’d masturbate to that pic.’
‘Yes boss!!!’
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.

Beth
I have been relentlessly googling how to reinstate some magic into a marriage, and it seems one of the answers is to spend more time together, one-on-one. That makes sense. I don’t remember the last time Michael and I went out for a meal. We fell into a TV dinner hole when I was pregnant and watched a series on Netflix until we passed out. It was time together, but not really. Our conversations now centre entirely around Tommy, and that is hardly going to help us work out our issues, is it? I send another text just before I leave work. This time a less humiliating one, requiring a straight answer, rather than any kind of compliment.
Do you think your mum would babysit tonight? After I put Tommy down? He won’t need feeding again until 11 and maybe if we stay local we could grab a nice dinner somewhere?
Nice idea, let me ask.
Mum says that’s fine. See, I told you it would be handy living so close to her. Bye.
This is literally the first time I have ever associated anything positive with living so close to my mother-in-law, Janet. She is interfering and obsessed with her children. She is one of those women who probably had sex three times in her entire life, each of which resulted in a child. All of whom are a bit weird. Michael’s brother has been married and divorced four times and not one of his ex-wives will speak to him. I’ve met him seven times and on at least three of those occasions he has hit on me or offended me in some way. Their sister is single at forty-eight. She lives in a house share in Canary Wharf and is obsessed with conspiracy theories. I can’t handle more than a thirty-second conversation with her. When I had Tommy, she turned up to the hospital high on ecstasy and told me that she thinks Tommy is the reincarnation of Benedict Cumberbatch. I reminded her that he isn’t even dead, to which she answered, ‘Yes, but how do you know?’ Luckily, she hasn’t come to see us since.
My mother-in-law will, however, speak of her children like they are perfect and as if she did a sensational job of raising them. I just nod and smile. Janet is prim, thin and neurotic. I am informal, fleshy and balanced. If his mother and I met in any other capacity, we would very likely scratch each other’s eyes out. But because of Michael, we somehow keep our claws in. I am willing to restrain myself even more knowing that her hideous proximity to our house means that she will be available for regular babysitting in the future. This is OK with me, because I will be out, far away from her.
She arrives at 6.30 p.m. as requested and insists that she puts Tommy to bed. My evenings with him are precious and I look forward to his bedtime every day, but I sacrifice this one to get a night out with my husband. It’s OK, it will be worth it. I get changed. I have a pretty standard uniform for work at the moment: my skinny maternity jeans – I know it’s been four months, but they are soooo comfy – and a long shirt that I can open easily for breast feeding. I wear low-heeled boots and subtle make-up. It works for both sitting alone with Risky all day, and popping out for occasional meetings. But tonight, I want to spice it up a bit.
I try on a few pairs of my pre-pregnancy trousers. None of them fit, which is OK, I haven’t even tried to shift the weight yet so there is no point getting upset about it until I do. I try on a black pencil skirt, but it won’t get past my bottom. I try on a few of my favourite dresses, but none of them do up. I then remember a black body-con dress that I bought online around three years ago but have never worn. I’m not sure what mood I was in when I decided to get it, because it really isn’t my style. It only fits now because it is ninety-eight per cent elastane, but who cares, it’s on. I put on some three-and-a-half-inch stilettos that I haven’t worn in around ten years and totter downstairs. Michael is wearing a grey t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with trainers.
‘My goodness,’ Janet breathes. ‘Is that the underwear that’s supposed to make you look thin?’
‘No, it’s a dress,’ I tell her.
‘Well have you got any of the underwear that makes you look thin?’
I ignore that.
‘OK, so you don’t need to bath him. At six fifty take him up, put him in his sleeping bag, give him the bottle and lay him down. The white noise is already on. If he wakes up before we come home please don’t bring him out of his room or give him more milk. Just rub his belly to soothe him if he gets really upset.’
‘So cruel,’ Janet says, putting her empty cup on the table. ‘Poor baby.’
‘Pardon?’ I ask gently, as Michael ducks into the kitchen. He hates it when his mother and I are in the same room. He thinks I will cause problems.
‘All this leaving the babies to cry, it’s so cruel. If a baby cries, you cuddle them. Those terrible parenting books telling mothers to neglect their children.’
‘It’s important to have a schedule. And of course we cuddle him, but we also want him to sleep well and not be afraid of being alone,’ I say. I don’t want to talk about parenting with Janet. ‘Michael, shall we go?’
As he comes out of the kitchen, I hold my tummy in and stand up straight. I am waiting for a compliment.
‘You’ll be cold,’ is all I get, and he passes me my ugliest and biggest coat from the cupboard. I swap it for a black leather jacket, which I regret instantly but pretend to wear with pride. I look like Kim Kardashian’s horny aunt. Although I am sure she would at least have had a manicure.
I pick up my bag and walk over to Tommy to give him a kiss. As I do, my heel gets stuck in the floorboards and I go flying across the living room. I land splat on my tummy and the contents of my bag empty all over the floor. Risky’s pink vibrator rolls slowly towards Janet’s foot.
‘Oh, what is this?’ she asks, picking it up. She turns over the bottom of it and realises it has three settings. ‘Oh Tommy, look!’ she says, gently running it over his face and body, at which he smiles and giggles. ‘He loves it,’ she says, joyfully. ‘Isn’t Mummy clever, I’ve never seen a toy like it.’
‘No, Janet. That isn’t a toy,’ I say, imagining Risky’s vagina juice rubbing all over my baby’s face.
‘What is it then?’ she asks, holding it up.
‘Yeah, what is it?’ Michael asks, going over and taking a closer look. Horror drenches his face as the realisation comes.
‘I’ll take that,’ he says, snatching it from his mother’s hand, stomping with it into the kitchen and throwing it in the bin.
‘What on earth was that about?’ Janet asks, before slowly catching up. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she says, rubbing her hands on her clothes, then running into the kitchen and holding them under the hot tap, applying endless soap, as if she just picked up dog shit with her bare hands. ‘Well I never!’ she exclaims. ‘Shocking!’
Michael is now standing in the middle of the living room staring at me. I pick up all of my things and put them back in my bag. Although embarrassment courses through every inch of my body, I do what any sensible woman would do and pretend absolutely nothing has happened.
‘Bye Tommy,’ I say, kissing him. ‘Shall we go?’
Michael follows me out of the door.
We walk in silence down the street, Michael so cross he is breathing like a wild boar that is about to charge and murder a threatening female, and me trying to keep up with him in my stupid shoes. I feel like a fat tart chasing a man who isn’t interested in her. I mean, maybe that is actually exactly what I am.
‘Michael, please, slow down.’
He stops suddenly, giving me a chance to catch up. A few blocks down we come to a little cafe that is open quite late and he ducks in. This was not what I had in mind for dinner.
‘Still serving?’ he asks a lady behind the counter. She is packing everything up but asks a man who looks to be the manager if it’s OK. He says it’s fine, and she starts putting the trays of sandwich fillers back out for display.
‘We’ll stay open for a bit for you,’ the man says, unashamedly giving me the once-over. Michael takes a seat and I totter up to the table. The bright cafe lights are glaring, making me ashamed of all my make-up. My fat, wobbly arms feeling like jelly, my tight dress doing nothing for me, other than showing off all the things I suddenly feel very self-conscious of. I sit down.
‘What do you want?’ Michael asks me, throwing the menu in my direction. He gets up before I have chance to speak.
‘I’ll get the prawn Marie Rose on brown, please,’ he tells the man. ‘And a glass of milk. Beth?’
I get up again, the dress feeling tighter now, the shoes even higher. I look at all the food.
‘Can I have the chicken mayonnaise with avocado on white please?’
‘Brown,’ Michael interjects, correcting my order. It startles me so much I forget to order a drink.
We sit back down. There is no music. The two people who work here are now making our order together to get it out quickly so they can close. I hate everything about what I am wearing.
‘It’s not like she saw me using it,’ I say, needing to break the ice.
Michael leans forward. ‘What is the matter with you?’ he says, through a tight mouth.
‘Nothing is the matter with me.’ I pause, knowing he needs an explanation, but I’m not quite able to rationalise it’s a second-hand one! ‘I just treated myself to a sex toy. Lots of women have them, it’s not a big deal.’
‘You think seeing my mother rub my wife’s vibrator on my child’s face isn’t a big deal?’
I spare another thought for Risky’s vagina juice. Please, please, let her have washed it.
‘It was clean,’ I say, as two sandwiches are put in front of us.
‘And here’s a complimentary bowl of crisps,’ the lady says, putting them in the middle. Michael pulls them towards him and starts layering them into his sandwich.
‘Mum will be so upset,’ he says, through a mouthful of prawns and mayonnaise. He often talks to me like I am gross, when his table manners are actually horrible.
‘It’s very unfortunate that it happened, but it was in my bag and I tripped. It was an accident.’
‘Dressing like that wasn’t an accident though, was it?’
‘No,’ I say, dropping my head. ‘No, I did this on purpose hoping you would like it.’
‘You know I like you in jeans.’
We sit in silence for a while and eat our sandwiches in the very bright cafe on what was supposed to be our date night. He can hardly bring himself to look at me. I have no idea what to say. I just want things to be better. So eventually I give in.
‘Michael, I’m really sorry for what happened tonight. I wish it hadn’t. But I’ve been so excited to have dinner with you and I hope we can still have a nice time?’ I take a small, delicate bite of my sandwich and make sure my mouth doesn’t open as I eat it. He takes his time, but eventually backs down.
‘OK. Thank you for saying sorry. And please, no more of that … nonsense. OK?’
By ‘nonsense’ I presume he means sex toys. I nod my head and smile.
‘So how cute was that picture you sent me of Tommy in the park? That squirrel was so close to him, amazing how tame they are.’
He cheers right up.
‘I know, and if Tommy was any bigger I’m sure he would have grabbed it.’
We sit in the cafe for a further fifteen minutes, talking about nothing but our baby, because when we talk about anything else, we realise we have nothing to say. When we get home – we were gone just over one hour – Janet is watching EastEnders and barely looks at me as she leaves. Michael walks her home. I go straight to the kitchen to retrieve my vibrator, but she must have taken out the bins, and rooting around in the outside rubbish looking for a sex toy is not a low I am willing to reach right now.
Upstairs, I take off the body-con dress and put it in a bag ready to take to a charity shop. I rub cream into my sore feet and set my alarm for eleven p.m., when I will give Tommy a dream feed.
Tonight didn’t exactly go to plan. I have zero chance of getting laid. And what a waste of a perfectly good vibrator.

Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren, she is lying on her front on a bed, her body reflected in a large gold-framed mirror. She’s reaching forward, holding the phone to take a selfie. The angle is just right, so you can see the curve of her hip and the top of her bottom. Her feet are raised and cutely hooked together. She is looking seductively into the camera, as if it is a lover. She is alone. There is a carton of coconut water next to the bed.
The caption reads:
Happiness and hydration go hand in hand. I don’t feel myself if I don’t drink enough (and no, I don’t mean vodka LOL). Taking care of my body and my skin helps me to feel good. I start every day with a #FRESHCoconutWater #AD #Cocofresh #selflove #reachout #mentalillness #hydrate #vegan #women
@turningup286872: Thank you for being you
@kellyheap: Is all you do drink drinks? Smoothies, coconut water? Can we see you eat a bloody meal please?
@HowdyMunchBrain: Twat. You have the perfect life. Get over yourself.
@Flickerlights-off: Queen.
@PatreonofLorralites: You’re so lucky. I wish I was you. I’d do anything to be you.
@gellyjeellybelly: That shit tastes like feet. What’s Gav like in bed, I reckon he likes a blowie, amiriiight?
@YUMMIETUMMY: I find you so inspiring. The best example of how to live your best life … keep posting, keep being you.

4 (#u7ec67539-0184-5521-90e7-8ba357126dc2)
Ruby
Bonnie was ill for most of the night. Neither of us have slept. She watched TV from six a.m., but five hours later she’s bored and walking around the house moaning like a handmaid, as if forced to stay by a cruel regime she is desperate to overthrow. I have a number of errands to run. I see mothers all the time, taking their children out and about: food shopping, clothes shopping, going into restaurants … they make it look so easy. I don’t do things like that with Bonnie because she screams at me whenever I try. I get most of my chores done while she is at nursery, or while she is with Liam at the weekend. I see those other mothers just getting on with their lives in the company of their children and wonder if maybe they have drugged them? Or if they share some secret to keeping toddlers under control that I don’t know? Maybe today I will discover it, because I have no childcare and I simply must get on with my day. I have urgent things to do, like buying mousetraps, tights and a new bra.
I wouldn’t usually force myself to try on new bras in a bright changing room, especially before a wax, but the underwire came out of my only one this morning, and it’s been so long since I got a new one that I have no idea what size I am. My body shape has barely changed in twenty years, but my boobs have never been the same size the day I got pregnant. I’m almost sure I’ve dropped a cup size.
I tend to do this with things that bring me comfort, like bras. I wear one until it literally falls off my body, hand-washing it most nights in the bathroom sink. This one has been going for five years.
‘Bonnie, you’re going to come with Mummy to the shops.’
‘NO, shops are boring. I want to go to nursery.’ She crosses her arms, stamps her foot and pushes out her lower lip.
‘Bonnie, if you’re good I’ll buy you some sweets.’ She is in her buggy in under thirty seconds and waits patiently as I put on her shoes. Are sweet bribes how the other mothers control their kids? I think of all Bonnie’s vomiting last night and groan. But she does seem a lot better.
We finally get walking and I push her buggy into the Marks and Spencer’s food hall, letting her choose a few different items of confectionary to keep her occupied.
‘Take four things,’ I tell her. ‘If you’re good, you can have it all.’
We then head over to the hosiery department where I pick up six pairs of eighty-denier black tights, the ones that apparently regulate my temperature, and a few bras that look about the right size. In the dressing room I leave Bonnie on the other side of a curtain eating a Rocky Road bar so I can try them on. But as soon as I shut the curtain, she goes apeshit.
‘Mummy, Mummy!’ she screams, drawing the attention of all the old women trying on bras. About four grey hairdos poke out of changing rooms to witness the child screaming in distress.
‘Bonnie, stop it,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll be twenty seconds.’ I shut the curtain quickly, and she screams again. I have no idea why she suddenly has separation anxiety; usually she kicks me until I leave her alone.
‘Mummy! Mummy, no!’
I tear open the curtain.
‘Bonnie, please pack it in. I need to try these on.’
I hear a ‘tut’ from the cubicle next door. A little old lady pokes her head out and looks at Bonnie sympathetically.
‘Poor girl, she’s frightened,’ she says, in that annoying way that old people do. They were parents to toddlers so long ago that they have forgotten how awful it is. They remember the sweet bits, the cuddles, the playfulness, the stories. Mother Nature has rid their memories of the turbulent mood swings, violent meltdowns, sleepless nights and their own stress-induced outbursts. Of course that is what happens – if all adults and old people were like me then we would horrify younger generations into never reproducing. It is imperative that humans forget the turmoil of birth and parenting small children for the evolution of the human race, but dearie me, when you come face to face with it in a Marks and Spencer’s changing room, it’s hard to accept it as natural.
‘She’s not frightened, she’s being silly.’
‘Ahhhh, give her a cuddle,’ says another of the set-and-perm brigade.
‘She doesn’t need a cuddle,’ I say, whipping the curtain shut again. I just need to try on some bras, then we can leave.
‘Oh dear, is your mummy very angry?’ one of them asks, seriously testing my tolerance levels.
‘MUMMY. MUMMY,’ Bonnie screams. What the hell is she playing at? She never does this.
‘Bonnie, wait,’ I say, sternly. She has to be patient. And I peep my head through the gap so she can see me whilst I try to blindly to put on a bra on the other side of the curtain.
‘Ahhhh, poor baby,’ the first old lady says, bending down to Bonnie. She is only wearing a bra. It’s weird and creepy and Bonnie doesn’t like it any more than I do. I rip a bra off its hanger. I just need to try them on.
‘Oh dear,’ the old lady says. ‘Do I smell poo poo?’ Bonnie screams louder as the old lady invades her personal space by putting her hand on her crotch and giving it a very hard squeeze. What the hell does she think she is doing?
‘I feel a poo poo,’ she says, as Bonnie kicks her right in the face. I only have one boob in the bra when the old lady falls through the curtain and into my dressing room.
‘NO!’ I yell, as I see blood pouring from her nose.
‘Help me, help me,’ the old lady screams. I look at her on the floor. Despite my half naked state, I feel a surprising lack of self-awareness. I’d take my body over her decrepit old one any day. It’s unusual for me to feel one-upmanship on anything involving my physical appearance. I rather like the feeling. I cover myself before multiple other old ladies rush to her aid. I get myself dressed, grab all the bras and tights and quickly leave the changing room. I’ll pay for them all, and try them on at home.
‘You need to teach that child some respect,’ one of the grannies shouts after me. I turn around and march straight back over to the cubicle.
‘Some respect?’ I repeat, to the three-strong gaggle of geriatrics nursing the perverted one’s nose. ‘You grabbed my daughter’s crotch and she quite rightly kicked you in the face.’
‘I was checking her nappy,’ she says, all breathy, hurt and offended in that way old people get when they are out of order but think everyone should let them off because they’re ancient. Well not me.
‘I’ve told her since she was old enough to understand me, that if anyone she doesn’t know or likes goes anywhere near her crotch she is to do whatever it takes to get them off. Old men, young boys and nosey old bags included. You deserve that bloody nose and I hope you’re sorry,’ I say firmly. The women stare at me as if I am a dinosaur and running for their lives is pointless.
‘SECURITY,’ calls one of them, like a damsel in distress who can’t fight her own battles. Stupid old ladies.
‘I didn’t touch you,’ I say confidently. ‘You touched my daughter and she defended herself. What are you going to do, have them arrest her? Or will I tell them that you grabbed my little girl’s vagina?’
‘How dare you,’ the bloody-nosed old witch says to me.
‘No, lady, how dare you! Up yours!’ I say.
When we eventually get in the queue to pay, a pungent smell of poo lingering around us, Bonnie has calmed down. I kneel down to her level.
‘Bonnie, I am proud of you for kicking that woman in the face. If anyone ever tries to touch your vagina and you don’t want them to, that is exactly what you do, OK?’
She looks at me as if she has no idea what I am talking about.
Then she kicks me in the face.

Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren sitting on the edge of a bath, one leg lifted and her foot beside her. One hand has a razor in it, the other is holding her phone. She has a black silk robe on.
The comment reads:
Body hair, why do we even have it? I mean, I know it was supposed to keep us warm when we lived in caves, but we have clothes now. I love having silky legs (Gavin likes it too;). Did you know that if you run out of shaving foam you can just use your conditioner? Oh, I know … such a good beauty hack. You’re welcome. #beauty #selflove #nohairylegsthanks #LaurenPearce #womensupportingwomen
@jemmajubes: No way?? Doing that tonight
@garflib: GENIUS. I don’t know how he is the one with the empire when you are this brilliant (eye roll)
@daveyodavey: Take that robe off next time.
@betterthangoodfor: I bet your mum is so proud, seeing you half naked on Instagram. I bet its all she ever wanted for you. #Getarealjob
@sesememe3: Your skin is like china. You’re perfect, keep being you.
@mellisaheart: Has Gavin got a big dick?

Ruby
Small victories are all you can cling onto when you are as terrible at parenting as I am. I sometimes wonder if I have any positive impact on Bonnie at all, but I’m experiencing a rare moment of elation at the thought that maybe one of the things I have told her has gone in. It’s a terrible shame I have to enjoy this triumph with a black eye of my own, but it is what it is.
When we leave Marks and Spencer I take her back to the park. It’s a lot easier than having her at home, and if we spend an hour or so here, then I won’t have to feel so bad about her watching TV for the rest of the day while I work in my office, hiding from the mouse. When we arrive, I see the man again. He is sitting on the bench holding a packet of baby wipes. The bench is pristine.
I find comfort in knowing other people are hurting. I have a habit of telling myself that I am worse off than everyone else. When I meet someone else with a physical or emotional defect, I feel connected to them. I guess that makes sense.
Bonnie is playing happily alone, kicking leaves and running in circles around a tree. I sit next to the man. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being on the bench now that he has cleaned it. His hands are clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He is looking out into the park, those memories replaying for him again. As if stumbling on a particular moment, he smiles to himself. It brings him out of his trance and he notices me beside him.
‘Your daughter?’ he asks, pointing towards her.
‘Yes. Her name is Bonnie,’ I tell him.
‘That’s a beautiful name.’
‘Thank you.’ I don’t tell him I regret it, he doesn’t need to know. ‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I say. He could shut this conversation down if he wants to, I almost certainly would.
‘Yes, I’m here every day.’ He turns to acknowledge the plaque. ‘This bench is dedicated to my daughter, Verity. She died when she was seven. We used to come here all the time.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah. Thank you.’
We sit for a few moments and watch Bonnie. Her sweet, innocent energy captivating us both.
‘How old is she?’ he asks me.
‘Three and a half.’
‘Ah, that was my favourite age.’
I have a feeling that I could have said Bonnie was any number of years, and that this man would have said it was his favourite age. But if anyone has the right to romanticise about parenting, it is him.
‘Lovely that you’re with her during the week. My wife insisted Verity went to a nursery even though she didn’t work. Then she went to school. If I could go back I’d quit my job and be a house husband, but you never think like that when they’re alive.’
‘I guess you don’t,’ I say, choosing not to tell him the truth: that I spend very little time with Bonnie, and that I am finding these few days of having no childcare incredibly challenging.

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