I decided to call Dylan and pre-empt any afternoon interruptions, but as I reached for the phone Carter tapped my desk.
‘I wanted to ask you to attend an event tonight.’ That was unexpected. He’d just watched me crash and burn in the team meeting and yet he was offering me extra responsibilities. ‘It’s a book launch – personal development meets business meets hipster aspirations. I’m not really interested, but from what you were saying you seem to have caught the bug. I want you to network with the attendees, see if there’s any potential new clients.’
‘Tonight … I’m not sure I can.’ It’s not that I had anything on, it’s that I didn’t want anything on. There was a mint Aero with my name on it in the fridge. It literally had my name on it: a hot-pink Post-it with ‘MUM’ in block capital letters.
‘I’ll send you the details,’ said Carter, appearing uninterested in my indecisiveness. ‘Think about it.’ Something about the way he said this made me take the words as both an offering and a warning. I opened my emails so that I could be ready when he sent through the information.
‘Don’t go,’ said Bettina. Not advice: an instruction.
‘I should take the opportuni—’
‘It’s not an opportunity,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s a chore. Don’t you think if there was anyone worth meeting, he would go himself? You wouldn’t catch me there.’ I didn’t think that was relevant – Bettina did copy and would have no reason to go. ‘Come for a drink with the OAPs.’ The OAPs were myself, Bettina, Marcus who managed IT, and occasionally Dee the part-time bookkeeper. Dee was in her fifties; Marcus was thirty-seven and loved any opportunity to seek dating advice from the female side; Bettina’s age was officially classified, but her in-depth knowledge of nineties pop music suggested to me that she was safely past thirty. I liked our evenings together. Having a drink with them after a day with the kids at work felt like slipping off tight shoes. I could be myself; I didn’t have to feel anxious about not knowing the hidden or explicit meaning behind Jay-Z’s latest album. As I weighed up the options in my mind, I received two new emails. The first was an overview from Annie, the second the details from Carter with a postscript that he would be offering Emerge to Annie, to create space for me to pick up a new client.
‘I’ll go for a drink next week. I should go to this thing.’
‘Ask Annie to go with you.’
‘Why would I do that?’ I was flummoxed; Bettina constantly counselled me to try and keep Annie reined in, and here she was suggesting I hand over an advantage like a piece of gum.
‘She definitely won’t go, and maybe that fact will get it into your head what a waste of time it is.’ Although spending more of my day with Annie than necessary was a hideous concept, I wanted to prove Bettina wrong.
‘Annie!’ I called.
‘Yep,’ she said from behind me. I turned to face her desk and watched her type for another minute before stacking some papers and coming over.
‘Was the brief OK?’ she asked as she approached.
‘It was fine. It was good.’ I had wanted to tell her she should have sent it to me for review first, but I wasn’t sure how to frame it. My boss at my first position after interning, Reginald Peterson, a loquacious man with a habit of taking long lunches with female, junior staff members, had taught me about the shit sandwich – negative feedback should be delivered with two bread slices of praise. The concept was really brought home when he later handed me a couple of stale compliments with a deep filling of firing. In that moment I couldn’t think of two nice things to say to Annie, so I made a mental note to come back to it.
‘I wanted to invite you to an event tonight. It’s the book launch for a bestselling author – it looks like there might be a significant opportunity to engage some new clientele.’ Annie hesitated, a very unusual occurrence.
‘Hmmmm,’ she said.
‘Hmmmm, as in yes?’ Annie became very interested in the cuff of her shirtsleeve.
‘I’m doing a thing, actually.’
‘A thing?’
‘Yeah, been planned for a while. Sorry.’ I turned away from her.
‘No problem.’ I listened to Annie walk away.
‘My point,’ said Bettina, ‘is if it were an opportunity, she’d be on it like a rat on a carcass.’
‘Point taken,’ I said. I was drafting a response to Carter in my head when my line rang and, as though I had summoned him, he was on the other end.
‘Annie’s accepted Emerge. You might be able to pick something up tonight. Something you can be more invested in.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure what I was thanking him for. I turned to look for Annie but she had scarpered. Carter hung up; he didn’t really have time for goodbyes. I called home without dropping the receiver.
‘Yup?’ I heard Ruby say.
‘That’s not how we answer the phone,’ I said.
‘It is how we answer the phone, I just did it a few seconds ago.’ Ruby began to laugh energetically. I could picture her throwing herself back against the sofa, her long dark curls tumbling around her face.
‘Where’s your dad?’ I asked.
‘Gone. I killed him.’ I closed my eyes.
‘Get your dad.’ Ruby screamed for her father several times. I heard the muffled sound of a negotiation before he came on.
‘Babe,’ he said cheerily.
‘What’s she getting you to do?’ I asked sharply.
‘Rubes? Nothing. She wants to download some app.’
‘Don’t let her get any social networking, she’s on a break.’
‘Yeah … OK,’ said Dylan. ‘Wait, why were you calling?’
‘What did you let her download?’
‘Shall we deal with it later?’ Dylan’s voice dropped a level as he said this, speaking in a tone that he clearly hoped might placate me, as one would with a vicious animal. I tried to push images of my daughter being groomed by Romanian people smugglers out of my mind.
‘Fine. I have to stay late tonight – something came up. Is that OK?’ Say no, I thought. Say no, say no.
‘Yeah,’ said Dylan, ‘that’s fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. Bettina waved to get my attention; she was standing, holding her bag, and mimed throwing back a drink. I shook my head at her, and she shrugged and blew me a kiss before walking away.
‘Course, babe,’ said Dylan, ‘work’s your thing.’ I felt annoyed. Work was not my thing; work had to be my thing so that everybody else had money to fund their things.
‘Sure, thanks,’ I said.
Maybe he smelled a whiff of insincerity because he said, ‘Did you want me to order a takeaway?’
‘No, there’ll probably be food. It’s sort of a party, really.’ Who was I saying that for? My husband, who thought that parties were a punishment? ‘What about your lesson?’ Dylan’s schedule was in green pen on the calendar. He had a double lesson in Shenfield that evening.
‘Ruby can hold the fort. She’s old enough.’ I thought of all the destruction my eldest daughter could be capable of in a few hours.
‘Do you want me to call my mum?’ I asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Dylan. ‘We can cope without you for one night.’ I told Dylan that I’d be as quick as I could and to try and get the girls to do some homework. I wanted to avoid another morning panic.
4
THANKFULLY THERE WAS booze, although served in those child-sized plastic wine cups, meaning I had to have three before I felt any effect. The room was crowded and hot, and I could feel sweat patches forming under my arms. I would have to get Bettina’s jacket cleaned, which meant dry cleaned, which meant time and expense. Dry cleaning is a luxury only the child-free can afford. The book launch was held in an East London hotel; it looked derelict from the outside, but the inside was stylishly kitted out to offer 1940s boudoir vibes.
Everyone seemed to have arrived in small groups, using the event as a social activity. I wandered over to a table holding a stack
of books. Each had a stark white cover with the words ‘INVESTING IN YOUR FUTURE SELF’ in bold black. A bored-looking brunette in her twenties sat behind the table, scrolling lazily through her phone.
‘Will the author be signing?’ I asked.
‘After,’ she said, without looking up. I was tempted to give her a piece of my mind, warn her that she could be missing out on amazing things and life-changing introductions if she didn’t look up from her screen, even occasionally. I thought of Annie then and felt a little guilty for judging her eagerness so harshly; she already understood that she wouldn’t be young and beautiful for ever. I bought a book, perhaps only to force the woman to engage, which she did very grudgingly, and then stood in a corner flicking through its pages. A sentence caught my eye.
Life is as real as you make it. Make it so real it hurts.
I looked up at the people milling around – I saw terrifying strangers, not new clients. A plump, red-cheeked woman wearing a dress covered in a ladybird print walked towards me, smiling broadly. ‘Solo flyer?’ she asked. I nodded.
‘Me too, I don’t miss anything Frank does. I use all his tools. This one is much more personal, don’t you think?’ When I failed to respond in the appropriate manner – that is to say I didn’t respond at all – she nodded towards the book in my hand.
‘Oh, this. I haven’t read it.’ The woman looked disappointed in me, so I added, ‘I’ve been saving it until after tonight.’ She grabbed my arm.
‘What a great plan. I wish I had done that now, although I don’t think I could have waited. You’re very strong.’ I raised my fist to my head, as if to display my bicep, and instantly regretted it.
‘Do you use the … um … tools at work?’
‘Yes. Definitely. I mean, he started writing business books, but of course business is life and life is business.’ The woman laughed and a beat too late I joined her. When she had composed herself, I extended my hand.
‘Alison,’ I said.
‘Beatrice,’ she said gaily, before accepting my handshake. I focused on applying what I considered the right amount of pressure; Beatrice responded by gripping my hand in a vice-like hold.
‘I’m here for my work. I’m in marketing,’ I said. Beatrice nodded enthusiastically. ‘Is there any marketing involved in your work?’
‘Sort of. I mean, I’m a librarian so the council take care of it, I suppose.’
‘Fabulous. Must run.’ I strode across the room, powered by a sense of having wasted precious time. I couldn’t mess around with small talk – it was time for life to get real.
‘I’m Alison,’ I said to two men in tailored suits. ‘I’m a marketing strategist and I’m here to build connections.’ The men looked at me and then back to each other.
‘This one’s for you, Wes,’ said the shorter of the two, before moving away in the direction of the drinks table.
‘Thanks for coming over. What is it that you’re offering?’ asked my new potential client.
‘A full-scale service – rebranding, bespoke social media development packages, the works. Do you think that would be of use to you?’ Wes licked his lips.
‘Everything can be of use. We can’t talk now. Too distracting. Let’s reconnect after the event and think business.’ I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to and it seemed impolite to ask. I suddenly felt nervous and very aware of the potential for malice in the world. I excused myself with promises to find him later, and stood in a corner to call my mother, a finger pressing my free ear closed to drown out the background.
‘Yello!’ she sang.
‘How many gins in are you?’
‘One,’ she said firmly, ‘and it was tiny.’
‘Can you call round mine and check on the girls? I’m out and Dylan’s at a lesson out of town.’ I heard a clatter and the sound of breaking glass. Mum swore but I didn’t want to ask her what was happening. ‘Look, if you’re pissed don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m not even nearly pissed, Ally, chance would be a fine thing. I’ve literally just stepped in from Eddie’s and you know how he can go on.’ Eddie is my stepfather – ex-stepfather technically, since he and my mother divorced many years ago, but I don’t know if it’s a title one is required to relinquish. ‘He called me over to help him with something – I get there and he wants me to tell him his mother’s maiden name! I thought it was for a password at the bank or something, you know they’re always asking these ridiculous questions, but no: he just wanted to make sure he had remembered it. For what reason? She’s dead, and I for one am not sorry about it.’
‘Mum! What if someone said that about you after you were gone?’
‘What would I care? I’d be dead. Wish I’d had a few drinks, he’d be far more tolerable and might look a little better.’
‘He’s sick, Mum. I don’t know if it’s fair to have a go at his looks.’ Mum snorted loudly.
‘He’s sick because he’s so hateful and greedy. You know I asked him for two hundred pounds for my charity? He probably has that under his mattress. He said no, and do you know why?’
‘No,’ I hissed, ‘obviously I don’t, and I don’t have time to know now. Can we park it? I’ll come and have a cuppa soon, I promise, but can you just pop up to mine and check on the girls?’ Mum was silent for a few seconds and I thought perhaps she was angry at my dismissal of her. Eddie might be the closest thing I had to a father figure, but he was still her ex and everyone deserves a bit of time to bitch about their ex. I made a mental note to make time to chat to her and another mental note to write down all my mental notes. I heard Mum swallow and realized she wasn’t angry but topping up her gin levels, and it was my turn to feel angry; often I longed for a grandparent who would make fairy cakes and slip warm fifty-pence pieces to my children before leaving for home. ‘If you’re going to go, you shouldn’t drink, Mum.’
‘I’m thirsty,’ said Mum defiantly. ‘Anyway, isn’t Ruby old enough to stay in with her sister? You were making the dinner at her age.’ I briefly wondered why everyone felt the need to tell me how old my daughter was, and inform me of her capabilities. Was I the only one who remembered when she got the bus home from the shopping centre in the wrong direction and we had to collect her from the end of line, where she had been sitting on a bench sobbing for thirty minutes?
‘I made dinner because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t eat,’ I said very calmly.
‘And what a wonderful lesson to learn at such a young age,’ my mother chirped. I noticed Wes move towards the hall. I wanted to try and find a space near him.
‘Just go if you’re sober enough,’ I said, and ended the call. Some silent signal had caused everyone to mobilize at the same time, and I could no longer see Wes through the crowd. I pushed past a few people, who looked at me either critically or with amusement, and gave up when I found myself in the centre of the anonymous crowd.
‘This could be the first day you live as your true self,’ a voice echoed around the room. Floodlights lit the stage. The man standing there was handsome and poised. His dark hair was cut close to his head and his clothes were sleek and unobtrusive. He wasn’t the sort of person you could pin down – I would have believed he was royalty as readily as head of an underworld criminal gang – but he was definitely something, whatever he was. ‘If you decide you want it to be,’ he continued, after an unnatural pause. ‘Of course, you could continue living exactly the same way you have been and producing precisely the same results; it’s no skin off my nose.’ He smiled to let us know this was a joke and I heard laughter around me, but I knew he had made everyone feel as nervous as I did. If he could say anything that would stop tomorrow feeling like part of a prison sentence, I would be sold. Frank Molony started to pace the stage, striding quickly as though warming up for an athletic event. ‘I’ve been where you are,’ he said. ‘Exactly where you are, standing listening to someone, hoping that doing so will lead me to the life I want. My sincerest apologies, folks – it won’t. You’ve got to promise to take action outside o
f this room. If you’re honest, you know who you want to be – make a commitment today. If you can’t make it to yourself, make it to me. Commit to getting up tomorrow and being that person.’
Frank went on to explain how we operate in the world, as a construct of other people’s ideas about us, with our true selves hiding or fighting to be seen. He promised that if we stopped pretending, success would follow. ‘The world will accept you as you are. Trust me,’ he advised at the end of his talk. ‘Any questions?’ Dozens of hands flew into the air. Frank looked around the room and pointed to a woman behind me. ‘The lady in the electrifying top,’ he said. She flushed and picked up the hem of her blue jumper; her body language said ‘this old thing’. Frank nodded, urging her to ask her question.
I watched her take a couple of seconds to compose herself before asking, ‘How do you maintain such a positive attitude?’
Frank gave her an inviting smile. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Caroline,’ she said.
‘Well, Caroline, maintenance does take work. You should see me in the morning.’ He chuckled and we laughed with him. ‘But the key for me is elimination. You see, I think a lot of people focus on adding to their lives, but to my mind the first step is to start cutting stuff out. Rip out the toxic people and the job that’s holding you back. Get rid of what you don’t need, Caroline. You need to make space.’ I couldn’t help but think about what I would do if I had more space – sleep, think, get a bikini wax – it would be a dream.
More Than a Mum Page 3