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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
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!’