The Mummy Bloggers

by Holly Wainwright

  ‘Yes, Dave, I have done that,’ she said.

  There was a muffled noise, and she glanced up again to see Zoe on the other side of the glass now—she’d pushed her way into the producers’ pod. She was at the studio window, looking stricken.

  ‘I have done that before. I’m doing a lot of soul-searching about it at the moment, to be honest.’

  Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else you’d like to say about that, Abi?’

  ‘I’d like to say how sorry I am for Samantha, and for any parent who has lost a child. I am a mother. My heart breaks for her. Samantha, I’m very sorry about your beautiful little Lucy.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Breakfast!

  ‘Holy shit, they’re all wearing white. What do I do?’

  Leisel heard Samira, the Blog-ahhs’ publicity assistant, hissing into her phone, and it made her smile.

  Leisel was sitting in hair and make-up at Channel 8 studios, once more appreciating the skill of the professionals turning her into a fresh-faced 32-year-old.

  One of the biggest moments of the Blog-ahh publicity schedule was about to happen: Leisel, Abi and Elle were about to appear on Breakfast!, the highest-rating morning show in the country.

  ‘All white!’ Leisel stage-whispered to the make-up artist who was colouring in her eye-bags. ‘It’s a disaster.’

  ‘Actually, it kind of is,’ she replied with a look that said: Don’t patronise us, lady.

  Two chairs over, Abi Black was telling everyone, loudly, that she didn’t want to ‘look like someone I’m not’.

  Leisel watched Samira run off to solve the terrible wardrobe dilemma, with one eye on the monitor that showed the studio downstairs.

  The floor was being set up for the three women to sit side by side across a desk from Simon Hedley, the host of Breakfast! It was the spot on the show when the blokey Simon asked three female commentators what they thought about various issues in the news cycle. It was called ‘She Says’, and Leisel had it on good authority that it was Simon’s least favourite part of the morning.

  The night before, Claire had told her, ‘He’ll be saying to himself, “Mummy bloggers? Are you effing kidding me?” He’ll be all, “I guess today’s not Walkleys day, right?”’

  Given the all-clear by make-up, Leisel smiled and waved at Abi, then headed up to the green room, where she went back to what she’d been doing all morning: trying to reach Mark on his mobile.

  On the third try, he finally picked up.

  ‘Mark,’ she said, ‘you have to answer my calls. Whatever’s going on with us, you have our daughter with you. You have to answer my calls.’

  ‘Sure, Lee.’ Mark sounded groggy. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m about to go on TV.’

  ‘Again? Okay.’

  ‘With Abi. And Elle.’

  ‘Oh shit, okay.’

  ‘Will you watch? I need someone honest to tell me how I do.’

  ‘Really, me?’ The fog in Mark’s voice was beginning to clear.

  ‘Yes, you. You are my husband. Your opinion matters to me.’ Even if you are my husband still sleeping at your brother’s.

  ‘Wow.’ Mark laughed—a croaky kind of laugh. ‘That’s new.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Where’s Harri? Are you coming over later?’

  ‘She’s right here. She’s watching Peppa Pig and destroying Dan’s DVD collection.’

  ‘He’s so ’90s, your brother.’

  ‘Yup.’

  They’d slipped into their usual banter, so easy and comfortable between them, but then Leisel remembered why she had called.

  ‘So, you coming over later?’ she asked again.

  ‘Yes. Harri and I will be there.’

  ‘You might stay?’ Leisel asked, turning her back on the green room.

  ‘Leisel, I… Let’s talk about it later.’ He sounded distracted again.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And Lee… good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She hung up, feeling better. She turned around—and there was Elle.

  She looked exactly like she did on Instagram, if a little shorter. Immaculate in a tight white dress, sky-high heels and a bright smile.

  Leisel glanced down at her white smock top and dark jeans, and gave a little shrug.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Leisel.’

  • • •

  Elle had been watching the traffic helicopter take off, jiggling her phone in her hand, when Leisel introduced herself.

  ‘Is your arm better?’ Elle asked her, gesturing towards Leisel’s peasant sleeve.

  ‘Yes, thanks, it’s almost back to normal. How’s your husband?’

  ‘He’s doing well, thanks.’ Elle thought about the text she’d got that morning. Same number: You need to come clean before we tell the world.

  It had been four days. One message every day.

  Adrian was barely sleeping. At first he’d said that they needed to pull the plug on the whole thing. But Elle had convinced him otherwise. ‘What do we tell people? That we were mistaken? That you don’t have cancer after all? You’d look like a complete idiot.’

  She knew that Cate was hiding something, but the girl insisted she wasn’t.

  I just need to keep her onside until the Blog-ahhs, Elle had decided, and then she’s gone. In fact, if Elle could just hold off any of this shit breaking until she had that award in her hand, she could handle it. After all, medical records were private: no one could prove a thing.

  She looked around the green room, knowing that at any minute, Abi would walk in.

  ‘Just checking on my boys,’ she said to Leisel, and fished her phone out of her giant bag.

  Are you on your way to the airport? she texted to Adrian. Remember to look terrible.

  He texted back straight away: Not coming.

  Elle sighed so loudly that Leisel turned around. YOU’RE COMING, she replied. Don’t be weak. We need a united front.

  No answer.

  Samira walked into the green room, followed by a wardrobe assistant carrying a blue jacket. Elle watched as they walked over to Leisel.

  ‘Leisel,’ Samira said, in the sort of calm tone that expects to meet resistance, ‘do you mind wearing a jacket onscreen today? It’s just, all three of you ladies are in white…’

  ‘It’s not great TV,’ added the wardrobe lady.

  Leisel glanced at her flouncy top. Glanced at the expensive-looking jacket. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Can I try it on?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Samira. ‘Ten minutes till we call you.’

  What a push-over, thought Elle. I knew I didn’t need to worry about you.

  • • •

  Abi was staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Who was that person with the smooth hair and the pink lips? It didn’t look much like her. She went into the toilet stall, grabbed some paper, came back and started dabbing at her mouth, her eyes.

  Then she checked the other stalls and called Zoe, asking, ‘How are you going down there?’

  ‘I’m alright. None of the cancer centre receptionists will talk to me, but I’m still trying. How about you? Have you seen her yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Abi. ‘I’m about to go in there. Did she reply to this morning’s message?’

  ‘Nope.’ Zoe changed the subject. ‘What about you, big week, hey? How’s Grace?’

  ‘She’s barely talking to me, but she’s around. You guys are flying up tomorrow together, right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Okay. Look, I’ve had an idea. About what to do tomorrow if we get nowhere with our evidence. I won’t tell you yet, but I know what to do.’

  ‘High-risk strategy?’

  ‘It’s time. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Kiss my sister for me?’

  ‘That’s funny. Talk later.’

  Abi hung up. Sent Grace a quick text: Thinking of you and the kids. Love you xxx

  And then she pushed open the bathroom door, into the green room.
/>   ‘Well, hi, Elle! Hi, Leisel. Don’t you look great in that jacket!’

  • • •

  Simon Hedley didn’t glance up from his notes as the three women took their seats. He waited for them to be settled in before he finally raised his head. ‘So, mummy bloggers, hey?’ he said, with a leery smile in Elle’s direction. ‘Where do you ladies find the time?’

  They looked at him in silence, as the wardrobe assistant fussed around their stools, straightening their shirts, smoothing errant hairs.

  ‘My wife’s flat out between drop-off and coffee and yoga,’ he said, beaming. Simon Hedley was Australia’s best mate, apparently. A truly top bloke. ‘Nice to have a hobby, though, right?’

  Abi, of course, was the first to say anything. ‘How’s your hobby working out for you, Simon? Must be exhausting, being a TV presenter and an idiot at the same time.’

  ‘Like rubbing your tummy and patting your head,’ added Leisel, and the two women smiled at each other.

  Elle rolled her eyes.

  Samira, who stood watching from behind the cameras, started audibly deep-breathing.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Simon. ‘I see. Bloggers or bitches was it, ladies?’ And he pulled out his most dazzling, top-bloke smile.

  The countdown started, and the intro rolled up on the autocue.

  ‘We are doing something a bit different on “She Says” this morning,’ Simon boomed. ‘This weekend, digital media experts from all over the world are coming to Sydney for the biggest-ever awards celebrating online writing. The winners of the Blog-ahhs will walk away not only with hefty cash prizes, but also the opportunity for serious investment to turn their blogs into big business. I have THREE of those bloggers in for “She Says” today, those nominated for the Best Parenting Blog. Meet the mummy bloggers Elle Campbell, Leisel Adams and Abi Black. Welcome to Breakfast!, ladies.’

  The women all nodded, tumbling over one another with their hellos.

  Hair and teeth, thought Elle, shaking her head.

  Keep the back of the jacket under your bum, thought Leisel.

  Try not to say anything that might get you killed, thought Abi.

  ‘Now, as I understand it, ladies, you are all what they call “mummy bloggers”, but you all write for very different audiences, am I right?’ Simon looked to Elle.

  ‘Yes, Simon, that’s right,’ she said. And stopped.

  Genius, thought Abi.

  ‘So you’ll all have very different opinions on today’s “She Says” topics, which is exactly the way we like it. Are you ready, ladies?’

  ‘We sure are,’ said Leisel. Remember to smile, she told herself.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go. So, today, a primary school in South Australia is in the headlines for emailing parents, asking them to keep their phones in their bags at school pick-up. The email, and I quote, says, “Your children want to see your faces. They want to know you’re happy to see them. No phones are to be visible on school grounds.” Extraordinary. Elle, do you think the school was within its rights to do this?’

  Elle leant in, her smile on high beam. ‘Yes, Simon, I do. There’s nothing sadder than children thinking their parents would rather look at their phone than their own child’s face. I understand the school’s frustration.’ Elle gave a slight giggle and shook her hair a little. ‘I love my phone as much as the next girl, but I try to make sure it’s away whenever my children are around. They need to know that they come first. Not Facebook.’

  ‘Ha, interesting. Leisel?’

  ‘Well, look, I disagree. I think parents, and particularly working parents, are busy people trying to fit more and more into their lives. We’d all love to be 100 per cent present with our children, but that moment waiting for them to come out of the gate might be the only one when we can make that doctor’s appointment or return our sister’s text message, or check the calendar to see what time ballet starts. It seems very patronising to me that a school is trying to tell parents how to behave. Back off!’

  ‘Great answer, Leisel. What about you, Abi?’

  ‘Okay, Simon, this is a completely bullshit topic,’ Abi began, sending a ripple through the studio. Elle and Leisel’s heads turned towards Abi at the same moment.

  ‘Language, Abi!’ Simon looked momentarily panicked. ‘Sorry, everyone.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. But it is. What one judgemental principal does with one stupid little private school in Adelaide is not exactly a serious issue facing the world, is it? If my kids went to that school—and thank god they don’t—I’d be walking around the playground with my phone glued to my forehead. It is none of their business how a parent relates to their child at that moment or any other. This kind of topic is just designed to make women feel guilty no matter what they do. And the right answer to that is, “Stuff you.”’ Abi ended with a fist-bang on the desk, and then remembered to smile.

  ‘Okay,’ Simon pushed on. ‘Well, ladies, I’m a bit worried about this next topic after that, although it is about politics. The Federal Member for Finbar made waves this week when he mounted a campaign to get paid maternity leave dumped altogether, because—he argues—it encourages women to work when their children are small. Mr Boorman says, and again I quote: “There was a time when women resigned from their paid jobs to take up another job, and that job title was Mum. Our society would be a lot better off with fewer broken families, obese children and less unemployment among young men, if we returned to considering motherhood as vocation and a duty.” I’m nervous, but Abi, I’m going to you first on this one.’

  ‘Well, Simon.’ Abi could sense the energy lingering from her last answer. She was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘There’s no question that the honourable Member for Finbar is an idiot of epic proportions, but he has one thing right—’

  ‘He does?’ asked Leisel, in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘Yes, he does. We have convinced people—men and women—that the only purpose they serve is being a corporate wage slave. That their only value is in earning money for someone else. That the only way to be productive is to be slugging away in an office all day, and that’s clearly nonsense.’ Abi was remembering not to swear, even as she felt the anxiety fizz in the air all around her. ‘Rushing mothers back to their corporate wage slavery as quickly as possible isn’t serving women any better than it was when they were locked out of the work force.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, Abi,’ Leisel said. ‘The vast majority of mothers in Australia work and they have to. Paid maternity leave allows them a little more breathing room than they would otherwise have to settle into parenthood and take care of their baby. Mr Boorman is directly attacking mothers and women in general by suggesting that they don’t value motherhood if they are returning to paid work after giving birth. He’s a dinosaur.’

  ‘Dinosaur?’ Simon asked. ‘Really? Elle, you’ve been quiet on this, what are your thoughts?’

  ‘Simon, in my opinion, these two women to my left are perfect examples of those who have alienated men like Mr Boorman.’ Elle had realised she needed to get in this game—it was time to turn it up. ‘Shouty and aggressive. It’s not the way to get your point across. I’m sure you’d agree, Simon.’ She directed her most dazzling smile his way.

  ‘I wasn’t being shouty—’ Leisel started.

  ‘But what do you think of the point, Elle?’ Simon cut across Leisel, smiling back at Elle.

  ‘If you can manage not to work when your children are small, you should choose not to,’ said Elle, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘Children need their mothers. It’s not fashionable to say so, but they do. The happiest mothers are the ones who have embraced their role, their homes and their husbands, who aren’t pulled in a million directions, who aren’t frazzled all the time—’ ‘So you think women shouldn’t work?’ Leisel was trying very hard to keep her voice calm.

  ‘I come from a poor background,’ said Elle. ‘I understand the economic realities better than most—’ she shot a look at Abi ‘—and I’m saying that if they can afford not to
work, mothers should spend some time at home.’

  Abi leant forward to stare at Elle. ‘Can you afford not to work?’

  ‘Let’s not get personal here.’ Simon had the look of a man who was losing control.

  ‘At the moment,’ Elle said, ‘I am fortunate enough that yes, I can afford to be at home with my boys.’

  ‘But you’re not at home, are you?’ Abi fired back. ‘You’re here, working. As you are every time you’re writing a blog post, or posting on Instagram, or cutting a deal with a sponsor…’

  ‘It’s hardly the same thing as leaving them for hours at a time to go into an office every day,’ Elle said, somehow managing to stay serene.

  Leisel, whose face was red even through the TV make-up, opened her mouth.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ said Simon. ‘There’s one more topic—hopefully we can find some common ground on this one.’ Simon looked like he wished it was 10 a.m. and he was on the golf course hitting his way into a four-hour Friday lunch. ‘A nurse in the US is claiming that she’s invented a program that can teach a baby to sleep through the night from just six days old. She’s been offered a six-figure advance by a publisher in anticipation of a landslide of interest from mums desperate to get tiny babies to sleep. Previously, according to the research—and it’s not like I’d know, ladies!—it’s been thought you can’t sleep-train a child until they’re six months old. Detractors are calling this child abuse. What do we think? Leisel?’

  Leisel had regained her composure. She took a breath. ‘New mothers are very vulnerable to anything that makes them feel in control. And at risk of sounding shouty, I would say that it’s not helpful to either them or their babies to give them false hope.’

  ‘Did your babies sleep through the night, Leisel?’

  She could hear the chirping of a producer in Simon’s earpiece—she knew he was being encouraged to stir up an argument.

  ‘Nope. Never. Still don’t. We just muddle our way through. And, you know, some weeks are better than others. Some nights are better than others. It’s not like that for everyone, but I would just suggest taking these kinds of promises with a pinch of salt.’