I kiss Annie goodbye, and Mum and Dad take her to school. I’m nervous, and they can see it. I go back up to my room and lie on my bed, I close my eyes and try to clear my head, but it’s impossible. I’m terrified, my hands are trembling and I feel like the blood is all in the middle of my body, like it’s been sucked away from my skin. I email Camilla.
Hey
I think I’ve fucked up. I said yes to an interview on Sky News, they are about to arrive. I sold out for cash. What have I done?
She writes back straight away.
Tara, don’t panic. It’s OK. It’s OK to say your bit, just don’t apologise. You don’t need to apologise. Women do not need to apologise for being sexual. Good luck, you’ll get through it. TV is your world, just be you and you’ll be fine x x
Don’t apologise? That’s the entire fucking reason I agreed to do this. If I don’t apologise, what the hell else do I say? The doorbell goes. Shit. They’re here.
I’m dressed in a black polo neck and jeans, as neutral but respectable as I could manage. When I open the door there are nine people with cases and bags and lights and even though I have worked in TV for over ten years and should have known what to expect, I am shocked and intimidated as they walk into our house and turn the small living room into a mini TV studio.
I make everyone tea and try to be hospitable. I paid for Mum and Dad to go to a museum, lunch and a matinee in the West End; I couldn’t cope with Dad’s hyperventilating and Mum cleaning out the Marks and Spencer picnic section to feed the crew. The crew are all very good at acting like nothing is a big deal; the trick with good TV is that no one mentions anything about the issue until the cameras are rolling. This means the contributor, who may not be used to being on camera, doesn’t say things like, ‘as I said earlier’ or even just miss chunks out, for fear of the people in the room thinking they are repeating themselves. Another trick is that the host has no contact with the contributor until the cameras roll, so I’m not surprised that Damien himself isn’t here yet.
It is so bizarre to be the subject of the show. I know all the tricks. I know that as soon as I am out the room they are talking about me. I know that they are all going to leave and tell everyone they know what I am ‘really like’. So I am careful not to act nervous or insecure. But I am finding the close proximity to strangers excruciating.
I sit on a chair in the kitchen, as a young girl whose breath smells of Tic-Tacs paints my face with a variety of products.
‘I love MAC foundation,’ I say, breaking the ice, because she’s obviously been told not to talk to me about anything personal and that’s clearly killing her.
‘Me too,’ she says, happy to speak about make-up. ‘It’s so good. And their new neon eyeshadows, have you seen those?’
‘No, I’m not really a neon eyeshadow kind of person,’ I say. ‘I actually don’t wear much make-up, I keep it pretty natural.’
‘Yes, I Googled you and saw that so I—’ She stops, realising that by admitting to Googling me she has just confessed to seeing the video. And now her hand is trembling and I have no idea how she’s going to put mascara on me without stabbing me in the eye. We say nothing else until the make-up is done.
At eleven a.m., Damien walks into the house.
‘Tara,’ he says, warmly. He’s about five foot nine, stocky, and looks like he gets his hair cut far too often. ‘Thanks for doing this. I think it looks like we are ready to go, how are you feeling?’
‘You know, a bit like I wanked on a train and now I have to go on national TV to talk about it,’ I say, managing to make myself laugh for the first time in a while. Damien doesn’t really laugh. I clock it. I never engage with any contributors’ humour if I have the intention of stitching them up. I’d never want them to say afterwards that I was two faced, because I was so nice before the cameras started rolling and then I fired uncomfortable questions at them from behind the camera. I suddenly feel suspicious. Damien tries to move things along and goes into the living room to take a seat in my dad’s armchair that has been pulled up close to my mother’s chair as if they are going head to head.
‘Can I get you miked up?’ says a sound man, holding a radio mike in front of me. I drop the cable down my top and catch it out the bottom, he connects it to the pack and attaches it to the back of my jeans. And suddenly I am filled with such fear, and such regret that I want to scream GET OUT to them all and get back up to my bedroom where I can hide and Google myself and not have to endure actual human interaction.
Think of the money, I tell myself, and I must. This is for Annie.
‘OK, I think we’re just about there,’ says Damien, suggesting I come over and take a seat.
He’s in my dad’s chair, I’m in my mum’s chair. It feels symbolic somehow, although of course the crew didn’t know whose chair was whose when they set up the shot. As the cameraman makes a few tiny adjustments, and the make-up girl dashes in to brush my nose with powder, Damien shuffles his notes. There are about ten pages on his knee. I feel like my future depends on what they say.
The room is silent. The cameraman says, ‘Action.’
Damien talks to camera.
‘Hello, and welcome to the special interview with me, Damien Weymouth. Now, unless you have been living under a stone, you will have heard of my guest today. Twelve days ago, Tara Thomas was living a normal life, working in television and taking care of her daughter, Annie.’
I flinch when he says ‘Annie’. Something about her being named on TV feels so grim.
‘But now, this single mother of one’s life is anything but normal. Branded a “scarlet woman” by the Mirror, a “traitor to feminism” by the Guardian and a “shameful example of a mother” by the Daily Mail, Tara Thomas is not only a national hate figure, but a national joke. Trending on Twitter for a record ten days, in just one week she has lost her job, moved back in with her parents and ended up hospitalised after a severe and public panic attack in a local supermarket. Today, feeling humiliated, vilified and like life may never be the same again, she is here with me, Damien Weymouth, to give her side of the story. Tara, how are you feeling?’
His gaze is like a laser beam. That introduction was horrendous. I sound pathetic, and even though I feel pathetic, I don’t feel that pathetic. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a weird croak that Damien cuts off quickly.
‘I’m sure it’s hard to find the words. So let me ask you some questions, and I have to say,’ he puts his hand up to the camera, ‘off the record, if at any point this gets uncomfortable for you, you just tell me and we will stop. If I ask you something you don’t like, just let me know and we will move on, OK?’
I say OK. But I know he’s lying. I’ve said that a thousand times at work. That is the host or producer’s way of manipulating contributors to feel like they are on their side. They are not. If I say I didn’t like a question, he will see that I am becoming emotional and know to push that particular subject as far as he can, in the hopes of getting some tears. It’s a classic tactic. I am not stupid and I won’t fall for it. He drops his hand and carries on.
‘Tara, take me back to that night. The night on the train. Where had you been previously to that?’
‘I’d been on a date and I was heading home,’ I say, thinking that part at least sounded quite normal.
‘Had the date been bad in some way? I mean, I don’t want to make any assumptions but you were going home alone. Were you upset?’
‘No, actually. I’d had a lovely time.’
‘OK, so you’re on the train, having had a lovely time. And then what happened?’
‘We all know what happened. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’
‘In your own words, please. For anyone watching who didn’t see the video.’
‘OK, I— I masturbated on a tube train.’
The whole crew take a sharp inhalation. It’s hard to tell if they are shocked, or holding in laughter.
‘That’s right,’ continues Damien. ‘And why did you do that?’
‘I just did, I can’t be sure why.’
‘And would you say that is how you live your life; by succumbing to your urges, doing things your way, when you want to do them? Is that a trait of yours?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say so. I think I generally consider other people before acting for myself. That’s just part of being a parent, isn’t it?’ I say, thinking that sounded fair.
‘Hmm. We have a clip from a short interview last night that I did with your old employer, Adam Pattison from Great Big Productions. I wouldn’t say he completely agrees with that.’
‘Wait, what?’
Damien tells a short guy in a baseball cap to play the film and I am urged to look at a tiny TV screen to my right. Adam’s face appears.
‘Tara was good at her job, there is no doubt about that. But part of the skill set for the kinds of programming she makes is being able to detach from other people’s pain. She did that very well. She would also lash out sometimes, and say incredibly cruel and unfair things, accusing people of being things they are not. Just out of nowhere, usually on email, which I thought was cowardly. She’s like a snake, she’ll slither along quietly and then SNAP, that tongue shoots out and stings. She could be very hurtful.’
My mouth falls open. ‘That fu—’ I stop, thinking twice about giving a visual on the crap he just spouted about me. Damien carries on.
‘So, would it be fair to say that you live a life based on what is right for you, and not anyone else? Like having a child by someone and never telling them, for example?’
‘We’re not here to talk about that, though? I’m here to talk about what happened on the train, and how my life has been turned upside down since,’ I say, leaning my head away from the camera, as if that would stop them filming this bit. I know it won’t.
‘We are, and of course we will get to that. But firstly I think it’s important that we establish your nature, what led you to that moment of public indecency. And I’d like to start with the way you had a child, because the viewers will want to know how you told yourself that was acceptable.’
‘I’d really like to just talk about the masturbating part, please. That’s what we agreed.’
‘And we will, but first, did you deliberately have sex with that man with the hope of getting pregnant?’
‘No, I didn’t. Now, please can we talk about me on the train?’
‘And when you found out you were pregnant; did you consider his feelings at all?’
‘Please,’ I continue, ‘I’m not here to talk about my daughter, or how I had her. That isn’t anyone’s business but mine.’
‘Well I’m not sure that’s entirely true, is it? Her father is somewhere out there and the poor man has no idea.’
‘The “poor man”? He’s not a poor man. He had a nice house and he got laid. Now, please, can we get back to what we agreed.’
He puts his hand up again, as if speaking off the record. ‘I’m just asking you the questions that the public want to know, Tara. If there are stones left unturned, this won’t be over.’ Annoyingly, I know he’s right.
‘But OK, we’ll move on for a minute while you get yourself together.’ He sits up straight, and gets back into arsehole mode.
‘How does it feel to have the public judge you in this way?’ he asks me.
‘It’s awful, it really is. I’ve cried more than I’ve ever cried in my life and I made myself sick because I could barely eat a thing. Everyone seems to have this perception of me and it just isn’t true. I’m a good person, and a good mum, and to be a hate figure like this is really upsetting, and very confusing.’
I’m happy with that. Not too desperate. Articulate, precise and true.
‘You must deeply regret what you did?’ Damien asks and I find myself freezing. Cam’s words come flashing into my mind. Don’t apologise. Women do not need to apologise for being sexual. I realise she’s right. There are many things I should probably say, but sorry isn’t one of them. I can turn this around.
‘I wish I had waited until I got home,’ I say with a small smile on my face. He does not smile back.
‘And you must be very, very sorry?’
‘Not really, actually. I want people to know I’m not mental, but I’m not sorry for touching myself when I thought I was alone.’
Damien looks twitchy, he shuffles in his chair, trying to think of manipulative ways to seduce me into a grovelling apology. But I won’t, I won’t say it. No matter how persecuted I feel, my future depends on the decisions I make from now on. I can’t change that my dad saw the video, I can’t turn the Internet off, but I can control how I cope with this publicly, and as far as that is concerned, I have two choices. I allow the public to win by begging for forgiveness and basically offering myself as comedy fodder for the rest of my life, or I own my own life and don’t diminish it by apologising. I mean, apologising? Who would I actually be apologising to? Sitting in front of Damien, some chubby TV twat who thinks he has one up on me because he believes acceptance from strangers is more important to me than acceptance of myself. But it isn’t, so I just don’t do it.
‘Tara,’ he pushes, ‘is there anything you would like to say?’
I sit still and look at my knees, as if building up to the breakdown he is hoping I have, and then I lift my head and say, ‘Yes. It’s such a shame I got into so much trouble over it, because I had a really fantastic orgasm. Are we done?’