I have a bottle of Elnett on my desk, which I plan to spray directly onto the mouse should it come into my office. I realise this might have a traumatic outcome, but I don’t know what else I can do. Before I look at another email from Rebecca, I need to sort this childcare situation out. I search for local nurseries and send the same email to all of them.
Hello, I recently moved to the area and would love to find a nursery for my lovely little girl, Bonnie (3.5). I have heard wonderful things about your place and wondered if you have any spaces available?
Looking forward to hearing from you, Ruby Blake!
Next, salons. There are so many, it’s impossible to know where to choose. Yelp is very useful for this kind of thing, but I will never understand why people leave reviews. Why would you bother if it wasn’t a complaint? I can’t imagine that, at any point in my life, I will be tempted to leave compliments on Yelp about a service I paid for. These people must be so bored.
I was very happy with the service here. Kaitlin was lovely and it was the first time I’ve had a bikini wax and it didn’t hurt. I’ll definitely go back, especially after seeing the look on my boyfriend’s face when he saw my wax ;)
Why would you write that? What does she want? A high five for getting her vagina shaped like a porn star’s?
Amazing place. Love the products they use. My legs are gorgeous and silky and smell amazing.
Why would she want smelly legs?
This was my first wax. I know, I know, I’m 39 and have always shaved but I’m getting married next week (yey) so treated myself. Loved it. Hooked.
That’s how I felt the week before my wedding. Freshly waxed, excited. Most out of character. Maybe her new husband will humiliate her too.
Just completed my third lasering session on my bikini line. Hurts, but so worth it. No more razors!!!
Well isn’t she brave. I tried lasering. You can’t get it done unless the hair is grown out, so with the twenty-plus sessions I would have needed I’d have been forced to remain hairy for months on end. I just couldn’t face it. Not only that, it was more painful than childbirth. I thought the pain was going to kill me. It was like she was holding a Bunsen burner to my skin. When I imagined that on my nipples I knew I couldn’t take it. Vera got as far as my left ankle before I told her to stop.
When I met Liam, I’d found a boyfriend who understood he couldn’t see my body for three weeks at a time and he was happy for our sex life to exist only in the window after a wax. I made sure I was hair-free when I was ovulating, and somehow we managed to conceive a baby. I can’t imagine feeling that way anymore, it was like a moment of madness that I fully submitted myself to. They say love is a drug – well, it certainly made me crazy.
My phone vibrates … for a heartstopping moment I think it’s the mouse and spray some Elnett on it.
‘Ruby, it’s Bec.’
‘Hello Rebecca. Everything OK with the pictures?’ I ask, as I pluck my chin using the tweezers and small vanity mirror I keep on my desk. I keep them in various positions around the house; there is always hair to remove.
‘Yes, all good. So, look, have you checked your email yet?’
I make an excuse about just getting home from the doctors and say I’m about to get to it.
‘OK, well I’ve just done a huge cover shoot with Lauren Pearce, you know who she is?’
‘No,’ I say, even though I do. I take very little notice of celebrities and I’m quite proud of that. I’m not interested in their narcissistic, attention-seeking lives. However, it’s impossible to not know about Lauren Pearce, she is on everything and in everything. But to establish that I don’t care I say no anyway. Rebecca doesn’t sound impressed, she sounds annoyed.
‘She’s a model, um, influencer kind of person. Marrying Gavin Riley, the Dragons’ Den millionaire, in two weeks and she’s just sacked her photographer because she thinks he was leaking stuff to the press about the wedding. I did a shoot with her this week, she was happy and asked me to do the wedding too. She’s turned down OK! magazine and done some deal with a champagne brand who will pay for the wedding if she includes them in the social posts that go out over the course of the day. That means we need you on site to work on the images with me and get them out. You in?’
‘She wants me at her wedding?’
‘Yeah, I mean not as a guest. You should probably bring a sandwich, but yeah, you’d be at the wedding. I’d suggest you set up in a back room and I’ll run the cards into you when I’m done. She wants to approve them then post on the day.’
‘She wants to approve pictures on her wedding day?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says, as if she doesn’t have time for such questions, and I should be just saying yes. But I don’t want to go to a wedding, especially one of someone I don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable at large events like that and I can only imagine the stress of it all on the day. I don’t want to be bossed around and surrounded by people. I like working alone. In my house. Weddings give me nightmares. Well they would, after how mine turned out.
‘She’s paying really well, offered four grand above your normal fee to be present on the day.’
‘Oh.’
‘Come on, Ruby, that’s a new handbag if nothing else. I know how you love a handbag.’
She knows this because I used to carry very impressive bags with me when I worked in advertising. Leather ones. To tone down all the velvet.
‘I mean, I’d ask someone else, it’s a good gig,’ she says, impatiently.
‘No, it’s OK, I’ll do it. Presuming it’s on a weekend?’ I ask, logging onto Net-a-Porter and having a look at the new season Chloé totes.
‘The weekend after next. How could you not know that? It’s all anyone is talking about.’
‘Not the people I talk to,’ I tell her, proudly. Realising that I don’t really talk to anyone.
‘OK. Email me the details,’ I add.
‘I will. Also, I’ve emailed over the pics from the shoot I just did with her, they need a lot of work. She’s given me a list, I sent that too. Can you get them to me by tomorrow? Thursday latest?’
‘I’ll do my best. My child is home sick so I …’
‘Ruby, do I need to ask someone else?’
‘No. No, I’ll get it done.’
‘OK,’ she replies, as if I should count myself lucky. I think Rebecca thinks I should thank her for all the work she gives me. That would make me feel incredibly inferior, when I know that in her line of work my job is more important than hers. Anyone can take a good picture on an iPhone now, it’s me that makes the magic happen. She should really be thanking me. I’m always available, I work weekends, and my work is impeccable. I hang up the call.
The photos of Lauren are of her in the nude. She is posing around her kitchen, living room and in her garden. Occasionally there is a picture of the loving couple together. Him, fully clothed, standing firm and looking handsome, her draped across him like a naked cat, or in something embarrassingly slinky. Apparently, these are to go in a magazine the week after the wedding. She has chosen to do a naked photo shoot to go alongside an interview about being in love. To me it reeks of claiming ownership; a warning to other women to stay away from her man.
Maybe going to their wedding will be an interesting experience. Even though Rebecca is planning on hiding me in a ‘back room’.
I’ll get to see how the other half live. Get a glimmer of the reality of these people. But one thing I know for sure is that the confidence Lauren Pearce pretends to exude about herself is an absolute lie. The list of changes she has requested to her body is ridiculous.
OK Ruby, here is the list from Lauren.
Bec
* sort roots out.
* Bronze all over
* Weird vein on foot, get rid of
* Eye bags
* plump lips
* Whiten eyes
* Bring out clavicle a bit
** Get rid of the peach fuzz.
*Remove Tattoo
I look at the pictures again. The tattoo is a simple ‘V’ on her hip. Probably some ex-boyfriend, she’s trashy enough to do something like that. This ‘peach fuzz’ she is talking of, a thin layer of blonde fluff that lies on her forearms, upper thighs, a hint of it on her top lip. If that was all the body hair I had my life would be entirely different. I’d take that thin layer in black, over what I have to deal with. What a stupid, affected, vain, fake trollop this woman is. I find her despicable. It’s women like this that set us all so far back, by promoting their bodies as their currency. I saw her on Loose Women defending herself against a Daily Mail article about how women who pose naked are not feminists. She said she is proud of her body and wants to show it off, that it makes her feel good and makes her feel powerful. She says she wants to encourage other women to feel the same way. To take ownership of their bodies and feel empowered by their sexuality.
‘Empowered’ is the most subjective word in the English dictionary. When women say nudity is empowering, they are diminishing millions of other women’s fears to something stupid. My nudity is my worst nightmare. If I took my clothes off in public people would be repulsed. I look like an anorexic ape. If anyone ever told me to embrace my body and love myself, I’d tell them to spend a week dressed as a giant monkey and see how Zen they feel at the end of it.
If everyone just kept their clothes on, the world would be a happier place.
I go at the pictures of Lauren like she is a burger. I have to make her look as delicious as I can.
I can’t exempt myself from the problem.
‘Mummy!’ Bonnie calls up the stairs. I ignore the first call, she doesn’t sound desperate. ‘MUMMY,’ she shouts again, and this time it’s impossible to not come running.
‘What is it?’ I say, going downstairs two at a time.
‘The mouse is in the bucket!’
After I feed Tommy his morning boobs, Michael lies on the bed burping him on his shoulder. Usually he disappears downstairs while I get ready, so I see this as an opportunity to be subtly suggestive. I go into our bathroom but leave the door slightly ajar, so he can see me in the reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. I slowly take off my nightie. Pulling it over my head, sucking my tummy in, pushing my bottom out slightly to accentuate my waist. I let my hair fall down my back, and shake my head slowly from side to side, so that my hair tickles my skin, just like hot women in shampoo ads do. I carefully check that he is watching me get into the shower. He isn’t.
I shower, and when I come out I realise he is still on the bed. I see this as progress and continue with my performance. I dry myself off. Pointing my toes, swishing my hair from side to side. I moisturise, rubbing body butter up and down my legs in slow, sensual, circular motions. I turn away to rub it on my tummy because that looks like I’m kneading bread, but I make sure he has a good view of my bottom, which is the best-looking part of me right now. I give it all I have, my hands swooping and swirling across my body, one foot on tiptoe to give me the best silhouette. I put on an unnecessary amount of cream, hoping he is enjoying watching my hands slide around onto my bum, on my shoulders, around my waist. I feel sexy as I do it. I’ve still got it, even after having a baby.
In the mirror I try to subtly see if he is watching, but he’s disappeared from the bed. Maybe he is getting undressed, and is planning to come in? I lean back against the edge of the sink. I put one foot on the toilet. No, that’s too much for Michael, I’ll scare him off. I put it back on the floor. I pull some hair over my shoulder so it tickles my nipples. I bend one leg and push my foot into the pedestal. I suck in my tummy. I hear him walking towards the door. I’m going to get laid, I can feel it in the air. This is the moment my husband will ravish me. My heart is racing. I lick my lips. I’m so ready for this. Then SLAM. The bathroom door shuts so forcefully that the glass in the window rattles. I stay very still, partly waiting, partly too stunned to move. Surely, he didn’t just slam the door on me?
‘Michael?’ I say, gently through the door. ‘Are you OK?’
He slams the bedroom door too. The mirror falls off the wall.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren in expensive fitness gear doing a downward dog. It’s a selfie; she is somehow managing the shot by taking a picture of her reflection in a mirror.
The caption reads:
Why is #lovingyourself so hard? Some days I struggle with what I see in the mirror, with what everyone else sees. You know those days? I get married in a few days. It will be the happiest day of my life, yet today I feel uneasy. Scared, even. Not of love, not of my choices, but of myself. Hmmmm, sorry, just thoughts going around in my head that I probably shouldn’t share. How is your day? #questions #selflove #happiness #daysliketoday #baddays #anxiety
@regretmenog: You are so real. I #relate to this. Just focus on that gorgeous man and realise how lucky you are
@everymanforherself: Yeah, it must be really hard being a millionaire. Poor you. Can I send you a slap in the face to cheer you up?
@kellyannconwaynemiisis: The reason the world is run by men is because of women like you. JUST SAYING.
@gillyvanilli: babe, I feel you. I just can’t #selflove today. I am a Dr and I prescribe a nap and some sex with that man of yours …
Lauren asked that I meet her at her house to discuss final details of the day. This nearly gave Jenny a breakdown, but there wasn’t much she could do. It’s a huge house in Highgate, just off a little square. This part of London is like another world.
Lauren and I are in her kitchen. She looks flawless with perfectly tonged hair and subtle make-up – always Instagram ready. The kitchen is huge, white, open-plan, modernly designed and magazine-shoot-worthy. There is a double oven and six-hob range, which she apologised for as soon as I arrived, saying the only things she knows how to work are the kettle and the toaster. She doesn’t pretend to be a domestic goddess – a chef brings their low-carb, low-fat meals to the house every few days. Her only real care for the wedding breakfast was that there was a decent vegan option. She let Mayra choose the rest, via me.
‘Can we do a selfie?’ she asks me. ‘We haven’t done one yet.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I say. Not seeing any harm in that.
She stands next to me and puts her face close to mine. Her head lands perfectly to the left, her cheekbones pop out as she pouts, her eyes squint as if she is looking a lover in the eye. I don’t know how she manages to make this photograph sexual, but she does. I wonder if she and Gavin are at it all the time. Two beautiful people, young, no kids. I bet if I went over this house with an infrared light there would be sperm everywhere.
‘Are you on Instagram?’ she asks me.
‘Not really. I mean, we have a work account and I post lovely images from our events. And I do have a personal one but that’s just for friends and family, I’m rarely on it.’
She isn’t really listening, typing away into her phone. ‘What’s the handle?’
It takes me a second to remember it; Risky does most of our social posts. ‘Um, @BFFWeddingConsultancy.’
‘OK, found you. BFF, does that stand for Best Friends Forever?’
‘Yes. When I started out people kept saying I was like their best friend, easy to talk to and to work with. I thought it was a nice title, to let people know it’s a friendly service,’ I tell her. I actually kind of regret the name of my business, it’s a bit silly. Also, I used to like being everyone’s best friend, but I didn’t intend for my husband to see me that way too.
‘It’s cute,’ Lauren says.
‘Thanks.’
She concentrates extremely hard for a second or two. ‘OK, tagged you. Let me know how many followers you get after that, I’m always interested to know. I posted about my friend Danny’s dog and she got so many replies she set up a page for the dog and he already has 402k followers. You should follow him, he’s at @DiggettyyDogetty. Funny.’
‘Cool,’ I say, ‘OK if I sit here?’
‘Sure.’
I take a seat at the twelve-seater table. There is a little dog asleep in a basket underneath it. Lauren takes another selfie, holding her left hand up and looking lovingly at her engagement ring.
‘My fans like to know when I’m doing wedding stuff,’ she says, typing something then bringing her phone over to the table where I’m sitting, and leaving it face up right in front of her. I notice that notifications from Instagram flood her home page. I only have seventy-three followers, but I had to turn the notifications off because they were driving me mad. Why wouldn’t someone with 2.1 million do the same?
‘So how is everything going with the sponsorship deal, is there anything I can do to help? Obviously it’s quite a unique set-up?’ I ask, referring to the million pounds Veuve Clicquot have offered her for posting Instagram posts throughout the day, featuring them heavily, and as many pictures of the happy couple as possible.
‘It is. It’s quite deliberate,’ she says. I’m not quite sure what she means. It shows on my face. ‘You know, to show I don’t have an issue talking about champagne?’
‘Ohhhhh,’ I say, realising she is referring to the rumour about Gavin shoving a bottle of champagne up a girl’s fanny.
‘Also, I’m one of the first to do a deal like this. It’s very exciting. Of course Gav said I didn’t need to do it but I like to show people I don’t rely solely on my husband. I’ll have total control over the images. My photographer will bring a retoucher, so they can work on the pictures as they are taken, I can approve them and then my mum will post them with a comment.’
‘Are you sure your mum is happy to do that, won’t she be wanting to enjoy the day?’
‘You’ve met my mother?’
‘I have indeed. She certainly knows what she wants for you.’
‘Sure, that’s one way to look at it. Anything to show the world how wonderful our lives are.’ She drops her head, looking sad, and I can’t tell whether or not it’s an act as we sit in this huge, beautiful kitchen.
‘I’m contracted to do twenty-five pictures on the day, but it might be more. We have to give my followers what they want.’
‘You talk about them like they are your babies,’ I say, jokingly.
‘I think of them that way. I wouldn’t exist without them.’
‘You wouldn’t exist without them? Of course you would.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Not in any real sense.’
‘In any real sense?’
‘I wasn’t exactly Bella Hadid when I met Gav. Suddenly I’m extremely famous, but for what? For marrying someone rich? My Instagram feed and my brand deals give me something to stand for other than just being Gavin Riley’s fiancé. My followers mean a lot to me. You probably think that sounds stupid. You’ve got a baby, you don’t need followers.’
‘Having a baby doesn’t mean you suddenly don’t need anybody else. You want kids?’
‘Desperately, I always have. Gavin does too. It’s probably why he’s marrying me, he knows I want to start making a big family as quickly as possible. He needs someone to pass all this on to.’ She smiles as she looks around her enormous kitchen. I can’t work out if she’s happy or not, there is always some pain behind the pleasure. She doesn’t feel like the lady of a house like this.
‘And of course, there are the likes. They feel good,’ she says, snapping back to Instagram.
‘Yes, that must be quite addictive. I got thirteen likes for a post I did about a plate of chips last week. It was electrifying.’
Lauren laughs. And I realise it’s the first time I’ve seen that happen.
‘Shall we see how our post is doing?’ she says, picking up her phone again. She made it a whole two minutes without touching it.
‘No, we don’t have to, it’s OK. I’m not famous. The only person’s opinion I have to worry about is my husband’s.’
‘I bet your husband is lovely,’ she says.
I lie and tell her he is.
‘As is mine,’ she confirms, and I wonder if she is telling the truth.
‘Look, we already have 1,345 comments.’
‘What? That’s insane,’ I say, genuinely taken aback. She shimmies up to me and we both look at her phone. The photo of me is terrible, I am quite red and my skin is shiny. My cheeks are a lot chubbier than they used to be, and I really need a haircut. I hadn’t realised how long it had got. The caption says Meet Beth, my wedding planner. The woman making all my dreams come true.
‘That was a very nice thing to say, thank you,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome. Oh look, this guy always messages me. Same under every post: “That Gav, I hope he knows what he’s got.” It’s cute.’ She keeps scrolling through endless compliments about how beautiful she looks, how perfect she is. How jealous everyone is, how much they wish they were her. There are a few about Gavin, people saying they love him.
‘Your fans love you,’ I say. ‘I can see why you’re on it a lot.’
‘I block the haters. It’s a bit like trying to kill flies though, you get one but as soon as it’s dead another one appears. But mostly people are nice. Instagram is good … for someone like me,’ she says, suddenly quite coy.
‘Someone like you?’ I ask, gently. Not wanting to overstep any marks here, but fascinated.
‘Someone who’s trying to fill a void,’ she says, as if that isn’t a huge answer that obviously leaves me wanting to know more. She stands next to me and scrolls through all the comments. There are a few mean ones, but they are mostly about how gorgeous she is, how sexy, how lucky. She smiles as she reads them, and I wonder if, for a moment, that void she mentioned narrows a little. Then we see a comment that ruins the mood.
Of course she’s a wedding planner, looks like she loves a buffet #fatty
‘Oh,’ I say, wishing I had pretended not to notice it.
‘Oh that idiot. Who is he anyway?’ she says, getting up and putting her phone on the kitchen counter. ‘People like him don’t matter. Some lonely weirdo who has nothing better to do than post things on the Internet. Ignore it.’
I wonder if she sees the irony of what she just said.
I sit up straight, and suck in my tummy. Suddenly feeling like a massive blob of flab.
‘It’s all good,’ I tell her. ‘I absolutely do love a buffet, so he’s not wrong.’
She thinks that is funny.
‘I like you,’ she says, as if she’s thinking a thousand things but only saying one.
I smile awkwardly. ‘Thanks, I like you too. Shall we get back to the wedding?’
‘Yes, let’s do this.’
‘So, the leaked invite. Is there anything I can do to help with that?’
She rolls her eyes.
‘“Leaked invite”. Sure. If your mother handing an invite directly into the Sun’s showbiz editor’s hand is a case of a “leaked invite”. It’s OK, it was inevitable.’
‘Your mother did it?’
‘My mother does whatever she can for attention.’
‘And you’re OK with that?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I had to sign a lot of NDAs but your mum just hands out the invite?’
‘What do you think I should do, have her sign one?’ she says, snapping at me a little. ‘And maybe I’ll get Gavin to sign one too, stop him …’
She trails off there. I say nothing, desperate for her to finish her sentence. She doesn’t. ‘How’s the baby?’ she asks me, moving on.
‘He’s fine, so sweet,’ I say. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘Do you like your nanny? I worry we will never find the right person when the time comes. You hear so many terrible stories,’ she says, as if that is the biggest concern of having children. ‘I mean, it can’t be easy having to live with another person – luckily we have the annex.’ She points into the garden and at a little house.
‘I don’t actually have a nanny,’ I say, feeling like a pleb. ‘My husband is with him, he managed to get three months’ paternity leave. I’ll take a month or two off when your wedding is over, then I suppose we’ll work out the childcare. But this is working for now.’
‘Wow, your husband is looking after the baby? He took three months off work? Wow, Gavin would never do that. I mean, he’ll be a good dad, I’m sure. But would he do that? No way. You’re very lucky.’
By the sounds of things she doesn’t plan to do much of it either. I don’t know why I’m judging her for that, I’m the one sitting here all upset about some guy calling me fat on Instagram, while my tiny baby is at home drinking from a bottle instead of my boobs.
‘Yes, so people keep saying,’ I say, a little more sarcastically than I mean to.
‘Oh? Is it not as perfect as it sounds?’
‘Is anything?’
She smiles and shakes her head. ‘Maybe never where men are concerned.’
‘You are also very lucky, and I’m sure you’ll find the perfect person to help you.’
Lauren smiles, and takes a sip of her water. ‘Lucky?’ she says, as if I need to explain myself from across the giant marble table, in her giant house, in one of the most sought-after squares in North London. ‘I suppose it’s about what you consider luck to be. None of this comes for free.’
‘No, I’m sure you and Gavin work very hard. But you know, lucky to have a nice house, a gorgeous husband-to-be. A career. It may take work, but it still makes you lucky – not everyone who aims for this gets it.’
Our conversation is interrupted by Mayra bursting into the house.
‘Beth, is this a wedding meeting without me? What’s going on?’
‘Hello Mayra, we were just going over a few things. Just over a week to go now, how exciting,’ I say.
‘Yeah, Mum, it’s my wedding remember?’
As if Mayra is reminded she has company, she switches into nice person mode.
‘Of course, it’s so exciting. Everything looking good, Beth?’
‘Great, yes. It’s all coming together,’ I say uncomfortably. She has a tendency to make you feel that way. ‘I better be off, is it OK if I use your loo before I go?’
‘Sure, down the hall, third door on the right,’ Lauren tells me. It’s quite exciting to pee on Gavin Riley’s toilet.
As I come back up the corridor, I hear them talking quietly. It’s obvious the conversation isn’t very pleasant. I wait silently outside the kitchen, hoping they’ll finish.
‘It’s my Instagram feed, Mum. I’ll say what I want.’
‘But all that stuff about feeling unhappy. And feeling scared. You mustn’t talk like that publicly, it isn’t good for the brand. You make us all look so unstable.’
‘For the brand? Mum, it’s how I feel. If it was down to you my entire life would be fake.’
‘I think we should do a picture, the two of us, your hair’s looking so beautiful. Let’s give them something lovely to look at, shall we?’
‘But why? It’s fine to say it’s not all perfect, I—’
I cough loudly to announce my return. Lauren looks visibly upset. Mayra looks as stony-faced as ever. But that could just be the Botox.
‘Right, then, I’d better go,’ I say awkwardly, picking up my bag. ‘I’ll see myself out. Call me if you need anything, OK Lauren?’
‘She will,’ answers Mayra, with a painfully fake smile.
As I walk down into Hampstead Heath I let the fresh air fill my lungs. I could do with some exercise, and it’s so rare that I get to be fully alone. With Risky in the office, continuous phone calls, panic meetings and location visits, there is barely a second for myself. I tell my brides to look after themselves in the run-up to their weddings. To make sure they relax, to work on their ‘self-care’ regimes. Maybe it is advice I should take for myself, but when exactly am I supposed to do that? At home it’s Tommy and Michael, the night feeds, the strained conversations, the awkwardness of bedtime. It’s a lot. Wherever I am I always worry I’m giving one part of my life more attention than it deserves and neglecting the other. I need to find a better balance. Somewhere in this wild schedule there needs to be time for me and my own needs. Whatever they are. I don’t even know anymore.
I get a bit lost, entering the park from a strange hill with multiple routes branching out at the end of it. Not really caring for a moment, and just wanting to walk, I take a left. It’s a little spooky, but I know there are people close by if I were to scream. In a clearing just to my left I catch a glimpse of something that causes me to blink furiously, wondering if it’s a figment of my imagination. Two naked bodies leaning against the bonnet of a rather sorry-looking Ford Fiesta. The car is parked in a tiny slipway, you’d need to know it was there to find it. Or just happen upon it, like me. I quickly dash behind a tree.
There is no one else around, this isn’t one of the main routes into the park, but still they don’t seem to be trying to hide. They are screwing silently but frantically. The woman is bent over the car, the man is thrashing into her from behind. I’m trying to go unnoticed, but I can’t take my eyes off them. They are being so bold, they must know people will see? I watch subtly from as far away as I can. I should keep walking but for some reason I can’t move. All of a sudden, I get a flurry of text messages to my phone.
Shit.
I get it out of my bag. It’s Risky, something about the company Instagram page getting over 2000 new followers in five minutes. She keeps texting with higher and higher increments: 2040, 3200. I guess Lauren really does have all the pulling power, her post has made me famous. In a flap, I manage to put it on silent, and I put my phone back in my bag. The man looks up and sees me. I duck back but it is too late. I mouth that I am sorry, I bow my head as I back away. I try to act like it doesn’t matter, gesture that they should carry on. It’s my bad for being here, not theirs. He doesn’t seem worried. He gestures with his head for me to stay. He taps the woman on her backside, and points to me when she looks up. She smiles too, then closes her eyes as if my presence just increased her pleasure levels by double.
I now feel like it would be ruder to leave.
Still from behind the tree, I watch the couple as they continue to fuck like two animals in the wild. I am close enough to see the flesh on his buttocks shake as he slams into her thighs. Close enough to see her erect nipple in between his fingers as he rubs her breasts with his hands. Close enough to see the hairs in his hands as he pulls her ponytail. Close enough to see the fluff on her vagina as he pulls out, turns her around, goes down on her until she comes and then masturbates himself until he ejaculates all over her chest.
It’s filthy. So real. Two normal people having genuine hot sex. The greatest porn. It’s not very often you catch anything like this, and to see it in the flesh … I’m so turned on I barely know what to do with myself.
They get back into their car, where they put just their tops on and drive away. This is when I realise I am not the only one watching. I see a couple walk away from behind another bush, and a man whose face I don’t see. It’s weirdly unthreatening. It doesn’t feel as strange as it should.
I am extremely aroused. Is that wrong? I think it is. Michael would not like this. But I did. I liked it a lot.
I hurry home, I need to put this sexual energy where it belongs. Because that will make the fact that I enjoyed it OK.
As I edge into the kitchen, Bonnie is standing right over the bucket, looking into it. She’s smiling. When she sees me, she points at it.
‘A mouse!’ she exclaims with total joy. Her bravery is astounding.
‘Bonnie, away from the bucket,’ I say, backing into the wall, scaling the perimeter of the kitchen in slow motion. In my heart of hearts I didn’t think my trap would work, I just needed to feel that I was doing something. But it caught the bloody thing in less than a day. Now I suppose I have to deal with it.
‘It’s cute,’ Bonnie says. Highlighting that cavernous gap between our characters. She reaches her hand towards it.
‘NO, Bonnie, don’t touch it,’ I scream, terrifying her again. ‘Bonnie. Mice might be sweet, but they are dirty. And it might bite you, OK? You have to be careful.’
She seems to understand and retracts her hand, she even takes a little step back, which is a huge relief to me. If the mouse jumped out and landed on her, I’m not sure I would be able to protect her. I’d probably run outside and leave her to deal with it herself. I hate them so much. Oh my God, when I see it, I nearly vomit from fear. Its long tail is disgusting, its little body and teeth, its pink eyes.
Breathing is impossible now, my heart is racing. I have to get it out of my kitchen.
‘What shall we do with it?’ Bonnie asks. She can’t take her eyes off it.
The way it’s running around in the bucket is awful. I should have drowned the bloody thing. Now it’s stuck in there and terrorising me. I’d planned to leave it until Liam came to pick up Bonnie on Friday, but I can’t have it in here. I just can’t. I won’t be able to come into my kitchen. I have to get it out of the house.
‘We have to let it go,’ I say to Bonnie. For a second or two, wondering how terrible it would really be to flush it down the loo.
‘In the garden?’ Bonnie asks.
‘No, it will just come back into the house.’
‘The park?’
‘No Bonnie, it’s too far.’
I’m going to flush it down the toilet.
‘Where then?’ She looks up at me. Her eyes desperate, her pretty little face so adorable I can barely take it. She so rarely looks at me like this; she is softened by the presence of another heartbeat in this house. It’s just such a horrible shame it’s a rodent.
‘Please Mummy?’
I’m transfixed by her for a moment, the sweetness in her tone, the delicacy of her face. It makes me respond exactly how I should, rather than how my brittle nature has often decided is normal.
‘OK,’ I say, stepping up. ‘Go and find your shoes. We’ll take it to the park.’
I put on some Marigolds and get a roll of clingfilm out of the drawer. I remove the stick and throw it out of the kitchen window. I roll out some clingfilm to about twelve inches longer than the perimeter of the bucket, trickier than it looks whilst wearing rubber gloves, and lower it slowly. A wrong move from me and I could tip the bucket. My hands are in such terrifying proximity to the mouse that I want to close my eyes, but that could result in the mouse crawling into my clothes. I turn my head to the side, but stretch my eyes so I can just about see, and I lay the clingfilm over the top, pressing down the sides to seal it.
Exhale. That was round one. I then add layer upon layer of clingfilm, longer each time so it doesn’t come away. I squash it to the sides, making it as tight as I can. I finish the whole thing off with a huge layer of kitchen foil that I scrunch into place and poke some tiny holes for air circulation with a pin. I now can’t see the mouse. That is better.
I lift the bucket and put it into the bottom of the buggy. It miraculously fits.
‘Bonnie, quick!’ I yell. She comes running down the hallway. I sit her on the stairs and put on her shoes, her coat. I strap her into the buggy, and she doesn’t resist me at all. I open the door and walk to the park as quickly as I can. All the while thinking it’s going to jump out and land on my feet. But I hold it together, manage not to get us run over, and soon we are there.
‘What about over there?’ says Bonnie, pointing at an area of shrubbery. It’s as good a place as any, I suppose. Bonnie sits calmly in her buggy until I’ve pushed her over to it. As I unclip her, she smiles at me. It’s like she’s someone else’s child.
‘OK, I’ll get the bucket,’ I say, putting my Marigolds back on. Bonnie waits patiently. Again, most unlike my child.
‘I’m not scared of the mouse,’ she exclaims. I could be wrong, but I maybe detect a hint of protectiveness in her voice. Is she telling me I shouldn’t be either?
I carry the bucket from the buggy to the shrubbery like it’s a bomb that will explode with any sudden movement. I lay it on the ground. Bonnie goes at it like a bar of chocolate.
‘Wait, wait,’ I tell her. ‘We have to get this right.’
She does as I ask. I start to peel away the clingfilm. The mouse bolts around the base of the bucket when it sees the light pouring in. I want to kick it over and run away screaming. I hate it so much.
‘Mummy, you’re shaking,’ Bonnie says, putting her hand on my arm. My knee-jerk reaction is to shake her off, but I manage to stop myself and allow her to rest her hand on the fabric of my dress, raised from my skin by the fur.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just cold.’
‘But it’s not cold?’
She looks at me in that way again. In a way that suggests she cares. She holds the look, and it sends a warm bolt of something soft inside of me, and I find myself not wanting to move on from this moment.
‘I’m not really cold,’ I tell her. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘What are you frightened of?’
It’s haunting being asked that question, even if it is by your three-year-old daughter. It’s hard not to list the things, to get them off my chest, just simply because someone, anyone, seems to care.
‘Of the mouse,’ I tell her.
‘Don’t be scared Mummy, it’s just a mouse.’
It’s just a mouse? You could say that about anything really, couldn’t you? It’s just a dead dad. It’s just an unloving mother. It’s just a failed marriage. It’s just a job that makes you feel guilty. It’s just a body covered in fur. It’s just an existence without intimate connections. It’s just dying alone.
‘Shall we do it then?’ I ask Bonnie, knowing what the answer will be. With my Marigolds on, I tip the bucket onto its side, facing away from me of course. The mouse doesn’t come out for a minute or two, like maybe there is something comforting about the bucket. But then it appears, sniffing slowly as it discovers new ground. Looking here, looking there. Sniffing this, sniffing that. And then it gains the confidence it needs and runs quickly into a bush and disappears. Bonnie screeches with delight. I stand back and watch. Maybe, just maybe, the slightest smile appearing on my face too.