Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren and her mother. Both pretty, both blonde. Both in jeans and nice tops, both fully made-up. They are hugging, with enormous smiles on their faces. The perfect mother/daughter combo.
The caption reads:
What would I be without this woman? Strong, funny, my inspiration. Love you Mummy! #womensupportingwomen
@usertype: I’d bang you both, has Gavin?
@essenceturbo: Ahhhh, nothing like a mothers love. This is so precious. She must be so proud.
@wednesdaydays: Go ladies! Looking gorgeous. I miss my mum, enjoy every moment.
@isolatetheday: Gorgeous ladies. So excited for you both …
Good morning Ruby, thank you so much for your kind words about our nursery. We are happy to say we have a space for Bonnie and can take her with immediate effect. You can bring her tomorrow if you like, for two hours, to ease her in. If that suits, we will see you then.
Please fill in the attached forms in advance. Maria x
Oh thank God. I finally get a reply from one of the nurseries I’d contacted. Hopefully this childcare mess will be sorted soon. I get back to Maria straight away.
Yes, wonderful, we will see you at 9am tomorrow. Thank you.
I’ll drop her off and tell them I’ll be back in two hours, but instead I’ll call saying I am stuck in a meeting and they will say it’s totally fine, and that she can stay the day. It’s what I did with the last place. She didn’t need any settling in, she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
I get back on Yelp to look for a new salon. One has mostly five-star reviews and is right over the other side of London (good, as less chance of me bumping into anyone from it). I book a morning appointment through their online portal for next week, and hope that whoever does it has seen worse than what they will see when I take my clothes off.
I’ve developed an irritating interest in Lauren Pearce’s Instagram page. The woman is ridiculous, shameful and captivating all at once. A recent post about not loving herself has really fuelled my judgement. She is in a yoga pose that looks as effortless as it does beautiful. She talks about not feeling good or happy yet looks sensational and Zen as hell in the photo. The entire purpose of the post is for mere mortals like me to write compliments underneath it. Well I won’t be doing that. What on earth does a twenty-eight-year-old blonde, beautiful, thin, rich and engaged to a finance exec turned TV star, know about self-loathing? It makes a mockery out of people like me who have real reasons to dislike ourselves. Mental health is the latest zeitgeist. Celebrities using it as currency. Getting on the depression bandwagon, hoping to be called ‘brave’ for admitting to not being happy, whilst showing us nothing but examples of the perfect life.
Either Lauren Pearce is faking happiness and that post revealed a little of the truth, or she is faking self-doubt to gain attention. Either way, she’s a fraud. But for some odd reason, I can’t get enough of her.
‘Mummy, come and play with me,’ Bonnie calls up the stairs.
‘Not now, Bonnie. Please! Mummy is very busy.’
‘Oooooooohh,’ I hear, as the crash of a huge box of Lego hits the living room floor. It isn’t followed by a scream.
I continue to trawl through Lauren’s Instagram feed. It’s worryingly addictive.
I find myself consumed with a strong need to orgasm. I am torn about whether what I experienced today was a form of cheating or not. Witnessing sex accidentally is not infidelity, but choosing not to walk away, is that? Finding yourself magnificently turned on as a result of it, is that the problem? We can’t hide from sex, it’s everywhere. Everywhere I look there is something that turns me on. And I am craving being desired, it’s turning me into the person Michael thinks I am. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do have a problem?
I tell myself I will feel less deceitful if my husband is part of this. If he is the one who brings me to my climax, then what I saw was all for the good of our relationship, right?
When I walk into the house, Michael is on the armchair facing the door. His computer is on his lap, his head back, his eyes closed. He is exhausted from taking care of Tommy all day. It’s unlike him but I guess he’s having a quick nap before dinner. The house smells delicious. I tiptoe in, then realise he isn’t asleep. He’s moving. His arm is moving. Suddenly he opens his eyes and rolls them back to the computer screen. His lip curls and his arm gets faster.
‘Oh my God, Michael, are you …?’
Sheer panic floods his face. He pushes his penis back into his jeans, sits up straight, but keeps his computer on his lap to hide his crotch.
‘Beth, what are you doing here so early?’
‘I … I just … I finished … What were you watching?’ I ask. Could this be the moment I have been waiting for? He is horny, I am horny? Could we do this together?
‘Nothing. Work stuff,’ he says, his penis obviously softening enough to risk getting up. He carries his computer in front of him into the kitchen, facing away from me, then subtly does up his flies. I know exactly what is happening.
‘Michael, it’s OK. What were you watching?’
‘Work stuff, I told you.’
I look at his computer on the table. What’s he into? If I knew, maybe I could do that for him?’
I come up behind him. I put my hands on his hips. He pulls away and starts tending to the saucepan on the stove. It’s so strange to see him being sexual, but also it excites me. He has a sex drive, this is good. It is progress.
‘How was your day?’ he asks me. His body language and tone making it clear that he will not discuss his masturbation.
‘Michael, it’s OK. Turn around, I’m in the mood too.’
‘Beth, please. Get your hands off me or I’ll burn the dinner. Go and sit on the sofa, this is ready.’
I do as he asks, feeling like I’ve been sent to stand outside the headmistress’ office. I daren’t say another word. He lays my evening meal in front of me. It is chilli con carne. This time, no rice. Just a green salad.
We put on the TV and watch an episode of Killing Eve while we eat. I can barely concentrate. He masturbates but he won’t have sex? What does that mean and what was he watching?
‘Shall we do another episode?’ he asks me when it ends. I say no, I’m tired, and I’d like to go to bed.
‘Me too,’ he says, clearing our plates away and putting them into the dishwasher. ‘Tommy didn’t nap today, I’m exhausted.’
He likes to tell me how tired he is before we get into bed together. It is Stage One in his sequence of excuses for getting away with no sex, and it happens every night. But maybe tonight he is horny? Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe he is trying to make this better too.
In the bedroom I get into bed, naked. He puts on his pyjamas after taking an unnecessary amount of time cleaning his teeth, probably in the hope that I will fall asleep.
Apparently a marriage is considered sexless when the couple do it less than ten times a year. We haven’t done it since I was four months pregnant. Tommy is now four months old. I realise that birth is a good excuse for both of us not to want it, but I’m not giving birth anymore. It’s time. The ice needs to be broken soon, and Michael knows it.
He gets into bed and immediately fluffs up his pillows and reaches for the parenting book he is reading. ‘I’m going to read up on weaning onto formula, I think we should start,’ he says, licking his finger and flicking through the pages until he finds the right bit.
‘No, I’m not ready. You know that.’
‘OK, well, it won’t hurt to read up on it,’ he says, pretending to read.
I shimmy closer to him.
‘You’re naked,’ he says, as if that is as surprising as me wearing a clown costume.
‘Yes, you like it?’ I hold the covers up so he can see.
He glances quickly, before adding, ‘Careful you don’t leak on the sheets.’
‘Leak out of what?’ I say, trying to have a little fun.
‘Don’t be …’ he starts.
‘Gross?’
‘No, I didn’t say that. Don’t be … oh it doesn’t matter. So, it says here we should mix breast milk with formula and introduce him to it that way. What do you think?’
‘I can’t have this conversation again. No,’ I say, taking the book out of his hand and throwing it onto the floor. He remains in the same position, as if the book hasn’t gone anywhere. I pull myself up on top of him. He is faced with my breasts. Full enough of milk to look fantastic, not full enough to squirt in his face. I fed Tommy before he went to bed; I’ll be doing a feed at eleven p.m. It is the perfect time for sex. ‘I miss you,’ I whisper seductively.
‘You miss me? What are you talking about, I see you every morning and every night.’
‘I mean, I miss you inside me.’ I start to move my pelvis backwards and forwards. He is looking at my belly button, the absolute last place I want him to be looking after I had a baby. I put his hands on my thighs and guide his head up. ‘Look at me,’ I tell him, as I smile softly. ‘Look at my face.’ He settles on my jaw.
I can feel his penis toying with the idea of getting hard. I am soaking his pyjamas bottoms with my vagina. I am proud of myself for waiting until I got into bed with my husband, despite being overwhelmed by horn since I saw those people in the park. This is exactly where my sexual energy should be directed. In my marital bed, with the man I love. I allow myself to move more freely. Images of what I saw in the park flashing into my mind. I use them only to increase this moment, and I stay present. My husband is the one getting me off. This is about me, and him. Michael’s penis is getting harder and harder. His eyes start to roll, his hips start to move with mine. He’s with me now, here we are. We can do this. I reach down and pull down his pyjamas enough for his dick to be free. It’s a nice dick. I’ve always loved it. I have him now. I kiss him. My husband who I love. Our tongues swirl in each other’s mouths, our breath bounces off each other’s faces. I grind myself down onto him. My orgasm building like lava working itself up a volcano, ready to spout out and explode. I sit up straight, and the visuals from the park come back to me. I’m with them now. Watching that man bang his thighs against the woman’s buttocks as he slammed his penis into her. The way he flipped her round, and ate her like the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. I roll my hips as I imagine his tongue flapping over her clitoris, her swollen labia surrounding his mouth. The thrill of me watching, the juices flowing from her like a lemon being squeezed. My hand finds its way to my vagina and I rub it hard, my entire pussy closing in as it tenses up so it can release itself all over my husband’s gorgeous penis that is swirling inside of me and feels so good. I come so hard it feels like I may have swallowed him inside of me forever. My legs spasm, my vagina throbs. My breath is short and desperate. Every part of me gave into that, and I did it with my husband. I did the right thing. That orgasm happened in the right place, with the right person. He lies still beneath me as he allows me to take my moment. I smile, knowing his turn is yet to come. I’m going to make it good for him, he deserves exactly what I just got. I open my eyes. I expect to see my husband’s blissed-out face.
It isn’t what I see.
I see a look of horror in his eyes. A tear rolling down his cheek. A tremor on his face as he starts to cry. I feel his penis disappear beneath me. And then he pushes me off, sits up and sets his feet onto the floor. He drops his head into his hands and cries.
‘Michael, I’m sorry. I just—’
He turns to look at me like I just sexually abused him. I’m cross that I said sorry. Sorry for what?
‘I don’t know who you are anymore.’
‘What?’
‘When you behave like that. It isn’t the woman I married. So … slutty.’
‘Slutty? I wanted to feel you inside me …’
‘No, Beth. Please, don’t talk that way. There is more to a good relationship than … than … sex.’ He says ‘sex’ quietly, like his mother is hiding under the bed. Sometimes I wonder if she is. ‘I’m too tired for this.’
‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to make love to my husband,’ I say. It shouldn’t be this hard.
I get out of bed and put some pyjamas on. He doesn’t watch.
‘I’m tired,’ he tells me, again. ‘Looking after Tommy all day, it’s a lot of work. And then for you to come home and demand that from me. It isn’t fair.’
I say sorry again. Which upsets me more than any other part of this entire exchange. Does he not think I am tired? Working full time on this wedding, still doing night feeds? I could fall asleep standing up but I am trying so hard not to complain. I know I’m lucky, people keep telling me.
‘I’m going to go downstairs,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll come to bed after the eleven p.m. feed.’
‘I do love you,’ he tells me just before I leave the room. I torture him by not replying. It’s the only power I have.
Downstairs in the kitchen I open Michael’s computer.
**EXTREME HARDCORE PORN. BANG THE MILF THEN COVER HER IN HOT JIZZ**
And he thinks I’m the one with the problem.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren in her bathroom. It’s a selfie of her looking in the mirror. She has lovely black underwear on and wet hair. She has a green face mask on. There is mascara on her eyelashes and she has shiny lips.
The caption reads:
Who knew happiness like this could exist? Not long now until I become Mrs Riley. Are my husband’s deep blue eyes OK to be my something blue? Tell me Instagram! Also, I love this avocado and cucumber face mask by #BrighterYou. #AD #love #selflove #marriage #TheOne #pinchme
@kellykimes: SO HAPPY FOR YOU, you deserve it!
@hailysimms5: You have the perfect life.
@geraldy9: I would literally leave my husband tomorrow to marry Gavin Riley.
@feelitdealitownittwice: I’d wear Gav’s eyes as a bra!
@pauldovey: why you rubbing salad on your face, love?
@hideousfacepalm: Is he making you sign a pre nup?????
‘My mother has threatened suicide since I was sixteen,’ I tell him, as we watch Bonnie chase a little friend she has made around a tree. I’m back on the bench with my unlikely new confidante. I don’t seem to be able to stay away. It’s easier talking to someone whose agony is so deep that my problems feel like paper cuts.
‘That’s rough, not easy I’m sure?’ the man says.
‘No, not easy.’
‘So how is she now?’ he asks.
‘She’s a morbidly obese alcoholic who lives in Cornwall and communicates mostly via status updates on Facebook, which I am rarely on.’
‘Hard not to take a suicide threat seriously though, I made that mistake.’
‘You did?’ I ask, wondering if he means his wife.
‘My other daughter. The one my wife and I managed to neglect as we dealt with our grief around Verity. She reminded us she was still alive by trying to kill herself on what would have been Verity’s twenty-first birthday. Luckily she didn’t manage it, but it certainly woke me up to what she needed.’
‘What did she need?’
‘She needed us. All kids want is their parents to tell them everything is going to be OK. But when you’re a parent, and you don’t know if everything will be OK, it’s hard to pretend.’
‘Yes,’ I say, knowing I have made no effort to pretend to Bonnie that the world isn’t a cruel and horrible place. ‘Well, it sounds like she has you now. Don’t underestimate that. I only had my dad until I was sixteen but that short amount of time with him is the only reason I have a soft side. His influence is inside me somewhere. He died just before my mother’s weight gain turned her into an unthinkable cunt.’
‘Woah, strong words,’ he says, and I hope I haven’t offended him.
‘Sorry, I don’t swear very often. Only when I really need the extra words.’
‘Was your mother really so bad?’ he asks me, as if maybe I’m bitter and exaggerating.
‘Yup, even worse. She drank herself to sleep every night and spent the days exhibiting clear signs of a bipolar disorder that to this day remains undiagnosed. She was cruel and hateful. I know it’s not always someone’s “fault” when they are that way. Once when she was drunk she made a comment about how her granddad touched her up in the bath. She never mentioned it again, but I’m sure it was probably true.’
‘God, that’s terrible. Your poor mum,’ he says. And of course, he is right, she didn’t ask to be abused. But neither did I.
‘I suffered as much at the hand of that abuse as she did. The only thing that ever connected us was our mutual need not to be seen. That doesn’t offer much time for mother–daughter bonding.’
‘Why would a woman as beautiful as you not want to be seen?’
‘I … um … I …’ I can’t think of a thing to say back to that. Part of me wants to slap him in the face, accuse him of being a pervert. Push his compliment away like it’s a knife trying to stab me. The other part is so amazed that this man has the capacity to be kind after what he experienced that I feel like should accept his compliment and not make his day harder than it probably already is.
‘That’s very kind,’ I say, eventually. ‘I have a condition that affects my confidence. I’m a work-in-progress.’
‘A condition?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it’s mostly aesthetic. If you don’t mind I won’t go into the details of it.’
‘Of course. Look, if your condition affects your confidence then that’s one thing, but to turn that into your kid’s problem, that’s another. You’ve learned how damaging that can be. Everyone has something, but it isn’t our kids’ faults. Your mum failed you. That sucks.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘I realised I was messing up my other daughter just in time. My ex-wife though, she’s yet to adjust.’
‘She isn’t kind?’
‘She isn’t kind, she isn’t supportive. She isn’t all sorts of things. Her grief is complicated. She never wanted kids. Sometimes I think I forced her into it. Then one of her kids dies. She resents the grief for a person she didn’t really want in the first place. She now obsesses over creating a world of perfection to mask her pain. That’s a lot of pressure on my daughter – forced into stifling her real feelings. Count yourself lucky, you and Bonnie have each other. You’re there for her, she’ll be there for you. You’re doing everything right.’
She’ll be there for me? I think about that all the time. When it comes to me and my mum, she feels like the child and me the adult. I always wonder now if I should be trying to help her more. I’ve thought about going to Cornwall, gathering her things, bringing her back to London and having her live in my spare room. But history reminds me what a terrible idea that would be.
‘Well, I better get going,’ the man says. ‘Have a good day.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say as he walks away.
He really is very handsome.