‘Well, call the doctor. I’m coming home right now and I’ll pick her up in a couple of hours, OK? She needs to be with her mum. I’m in London at the moment. On a job. In the meantime, give her plenty of water, take her temperature, administer Calpol and don’t give her any more of Storie’s Mother Nature crap!’
I stab my finger at the screen and hang up, furious.
Edward reaches out a hand to stroke my bare back and I pull my knees up to my chest and let out a couple of huge sobs. I don’t even care that he’s seeing me like this. I couldn’t be more vulnerable right now, crying and naked, but I feel so wretched on the inside, it doesn’t compare.
‘Oh, Robin. Are you all right? Can I do anything to help?’ he says softly.
‘I need to go, Edward. My daughter’s not very well and her father seems to be utterly incompetent,’ I say, wiping my eyes hard and smearing even more make-up about than I did half an hour ago when my head was face down on the 1,000-thread-count sheets.
‘I heard …’ he carries on stroking my back ‘… I heard.’ He plants a little kiss on the top of my head. ‘He sounds a bit flustered.’
‘Sorry to ruin the fun,’ I say, turning to him.
‘Don’t worry at all. You’re her mum, you’ve got to go. This can wait till next time,’ he says gently and not wincing at all at the sight of my messed-up face.
Wow, he’s nice. Calm in a crisis.
I smile weakly, nuzzle into his shoulder briefly, climb out of bed, shower quickly, throw my crumpled things into my bag and leave with a kiss on the lips that was perhaps more lingering than I meant it to be.
STORIE WAS A MESS when I arrived at theirs, having lucked out with a fast train. Lyla looked pale and tired, Simon looked the same as ever (smudged glasses and unkempt hair) but Storie had clearly been crying. Her maxi-dress looked even more crumpled than usual and her kohl was smudged all over her eyes. I found it hard to summon sympathy. The woman had let my precious baby nearly poison herself and didn’t seem able to explain to me what the doctor had advised.
‘Mother Earth does not want to harm her, Robin,’ she blithered as I wrapped Lyla’s coat around her frail, little body, cradling my phone under my ear with my shoulder as I called NHS 111.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t, Storie, but you don’t let bloody seven-year-olds eat God knows what from the forest floor!’ I huffed, far too angry to handle Storie and her hippy ways or even to mind my language round Lyla.
After a temperature check I drove my little girl home to a fluffy nest of pillows, blankets and dressing gowns on the sofa.
We’re just going to take it easy for the rest of the day. The lady on the phone told me to keep an eye on her, keep her fluids up and call back if her temperature changes, so that’s the plan. Why this was such a hard plan for Simon and Storie to handle I will never know, but I’m happier at home with my girl than leaving them to it.
I’m starting to feel a bit sick myself in sympathy. What we both need now is a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is a brand-new day …
THANKFULLY, LYLA’S TEMPERATURE STAYED normal and there was no more sickness, so school on Monday is a go-ahead. I feel like I’m coming down with something – when you’re so hyper-focused on your child’s well-being, it rubs off and manifests itself in weird ways.
Since I’m not feeling tip-top, I can’t say I’ve made a huge amount of effort for the school run. It’s April but one of those bitterly cold days still, so it’s skinny jeans, fake Uggs, a sweater and a giant puffer jacket. This, I feel, is still a distinct step up from the PJs-under-my-coat look of last year and so is to be commended.
As we walk in I spot a familiar weasel-like figure: Valerie Pickering, my least-favourite school mum and all-round misery guts. Naturally, Val is oblivious to the weather and is wearing jeans so skinny they could have been sprayed on, a black silk cami and a tiny three-quarter-sleeve blazer emblazoned with some designer logo I don’t recognise. Her hair is slicked back into such a tight ponytail I can’t tell if she’s got a Botox top-up or just a really good hair bobble, and her make-up is equally severe.
I’m not in the mood for the ‘Val Experience’ today – Skye handed in our proposal to Natalie on Friday and we’re having her feedback this morning, and the sooner I get to the office the better – so I walk purposefully by with a small smile and a ‘Morning, Val,’ as I go.
‘Charming!’ calls Val as I walk through the door, holding Lyla’s hand. She literally cannot help herself.
‘Pardon?’ I say, turning around unenthusiastically.
‘Well, I thought you’d have more to say than that,’ Val says with a wry smirk, but I see the hint of vulnerability in her eyes. Against my own better judgement, I feel sorry for her. She never seems to have any friends, these dieting issues obviously come from her deep-seated unhappiness, her husband has left her and all her conversation seems to be sniping at people she sees as less than her.
Well, I’m not biting. Not today.
‘Sorry, I don’t follow,’ I say.
‘I heard you’d taken the minutes for the latest PaGS meeting a couple of weeks back, and you still haven’t sent them out to us parents,’ she says.
Why does she care so much about the minutes? They are basically the same every month – we never do anything that thrilling. It’s organising a raffle here and there, coordinating parent volunteers for the children’s disco …
I look back at her, lost for words.
‘I thought now you’re an ambassador for the parents, you’d make more of an effort with the other mothers, but I can see you’re barely even making an effort with yourself. Are you styling yourself on the Michelin man now, or is it just the newest way to disguise a bit of weight gain?’ She gives a small tinkly laugh and saunters off in her heels.
I stand there, stunned. What a bitch. I take a deep breath and try to be zen. She has a shit life right now and can’t help but let her nastiness seep out. I should pity her; I do pity her. If I had more energy, I’d obviously say something witty and dignified back but right now I just need to drop Lyla off at her Early Risers Club and get to work.
‘What did she mean, Mummy? Why would you wear a disguise?’ Lyla asks, looking up at me, still holding my hand and not fully grasping Val’s dig.
‘Is it bad to gain weight? Do you need to eat your dinners from little boxes and do the DASH diet?’
I can’t face trying to give her another enriching life lesson today, but I don’t want to hear about this bloody diet again. ‘Do you know what, my love? Valerie doesn’t feel nice on the inside and so she is struggling to be nice on the outside. She feels rotten, so she’s saying nasty things to try and make other people feel sad too. We can choose not to listen to her. We can choose to be beautifully happy on the inside and let that shine through to other people. Plus, I think she must have fallen out of bed on the wrong side this morning and is just being a massive grumpy-guts!’ I laugh. Hopefully that was enriching enough.
Lyla finds this a suitable answer, laughs with me (I force out another little chuckle) and we walk down to the Early Risers room and say bye-bye for the day.
NINE
PARKED UP OUTSIDE MADE IT, I take a deep breath, check myself in the rear-view mirror (I’d put a little bit of emergency make-up on in the school car park; you can’t turn up to a key meeting at a modelling and make-up agency looking like shit on a stick, after all), pinch my cheeks a bit to add some more colour, flick my hair and step out into the chilly air.
I feel sick with nerves knowing today’s the day Natalie feeds back on all of mine and Skye’s efforts. Should I have gone with the holographic body art extravaganza?
‘Natalie’s waiting in your office with Skye,’ Alice says as I walk past the front desk.
What? Why are they already in? It’s only 8.50. I’m not late. What if they open my office drawers and see all my half-eaten snacks and notepads of doodles that I do when I can’t get my thoughts flowing?
I walk briskly down the short corridor
as if getting there a nanosecond earlier will make any difference, and reason with myself that they are probably waiting with big smiles at how incredible the proposal is. I know it is. I went through every page last week and all Skye had to do was add in the example photos, product links and references. It’s a good, strong piece of work. I am a good, strong woman.
Fuck, I want to throw up.
I open the door and step in.
NATALIE’S FACE LOOKS LIKE thunder and if Skye had it in her to show a full range of emotions, I think she’d be crying.
Natalie sits on my side of the desk and gestures me to sit down. I don’t even take my coat off.
‘I founded the agency on integrity, equality and hard work,’ Natalie says, looking at me directly before she even says hello.
‘Er, yes.’ This is ridiculous. I glance at Skye and she’s staring straight ahead, avoiding my gaze. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s—’
‘Is the Mara Isso job a joke to you?’ Natalie interrupts, every muscle in her face tense.
‘What? No. Why would it be?’ I’m getting a bit annoyed now. I feel like I’m being assaulted and I don’t know why.
‘What’s this?’ Natalie spits, holding out the proposal documents so tightly I can see the bones of her knuckles straining against her skin.
I take them off her, look at the cover page, look back at her, squint and reply, ‘The proposal. Are you unhappy with it?’
‘Unhappy with it? I’m horrified by it! If that had gone out our entire reputation would have been in jeopardy. MADE IT would be ruined!’ Natalie is almost hysterical. She’s usually unflappable but today something has definitely flapped her. ‘It would get round the whole industry, we’d lose everything from wedding bookings all the way up to the film franchise job!’
‘Natalie, this is unfair. I have worked very hard on this and so has Skye. We do think that natural beauty is the way forward, and I do think those plus-size models are more than enough to light up that runway without all the extra frills and thrills. If you don’t like the idea then we can change it, but I don’t think it’s agency-ruining.’ I look at her blankly. I’ve said my bit. She’s clearly going mad. I’m a bit scared but I’m not going to let that show right now. The world’s gone topsy-turvy.
‘Then why on earth have you called them “fatties”?’ she says, breathing heavily.
‘What?’ I’m entirely lost.
Skye finally moves, takes the papers out of my hand and flips to page four. It all looks fine, I think as I scan through the blurb about natural beauty, see a good stock picture of a stunning plus-size lady on the catwalk and below, a list of cosmetics.
‘I’m sorry, I’m still—’
Skye jabs a finger at the slightly smaller, italic font under the photo of the model. ‘Insert fatty pic here.’ What the actual fuck?
I turn more pages and in tiny type under every picture Skye’s inserted, it says, ‘Insert fatty pic here’, ‘Fatty pic here’. The more I turn, the more I see and I feel like my heart is in my throat.
I’d asked Skye to do the references and stock imagery and she’d obviously made that awful little note for herself to break up where each shot would go and then not removed it. What a cock-up, what a horrendous cock-up.
‘Natalie, I’m so sorry, we—’ I begin, and glance at Skye, who’s looking at the floor.
‘I put you in charge of this, Robin,’ Natalie says, cutting me off again. ‘I put my faith and trust in you. I was relying on you. You’ve been my right-hand woman all these months and I thought you’d do a good job.’
‘Yes, you did. Skye and I worked on this idea and feel it’s the right fit for the job,’ I begin, not really knowing where I’m going with this. ‘I think it’s a good thing that we have found this error and have time to rectify it, and then we can send this strong proposal off and focus on the next steps.’ Wow, I’ve surprised even myself with that.
‘Who did this?’ Natalie says without a jot of recognition for what I’ve just said.
Skye is now staring blankly ahead, perhaps in shock, and I look at Natalie. She must know I didn’t do it but I can’t throw Skye under the bus. This isn’t the headmaster’s office that time Ruth Ogalvie spat in Ms Simpson’s paintbrush water. This is real life. Adult life. And what Skye has done is horrifying.
‘I want an explanation. A justification for this sloppy, offensive error,’ Natalie says, a tad calmer but not much.
I wish Skye would own up to it, but she’s turned mute and is apparently paralysed. Cool, thanks Skye.
‘I managed this part of the proposal and I must take responsibility for it, Natalie,’ I say with clenched jaw. I wish I’d read it through before it was sent over to Natalie. I wish I’d managed this better; I wish I’d insisted I double-checked it all. It’s too late now, though. I’m going to have to take this very painfully on the chin.
I turn my head a fraction to look at Skye. One of the bones in her jaw moves the tiniest amount in recognition of me giving her the perfect opening to own up, to take her mistake into her own hands. The pause feels like a lifetime, but she’s as frozen as one of those street performers who paint themselves silver and pretend to be statues. She does not own up. I can feel my chest, neck and face reddening. I’m having to take this. Natalie is going to think I make stupid mistakes but, worst of all, that I would label anyone ‘fatty,’. That I would be so derogatory. Fucking Skye. Fucking me. Why didn’t I do one last read-through?
Natalie stares at me for a moment, looks over to Skye, who makes zero eye contact, and then looks back at me. I can’t work out what she’s thinking. Bloody hell, she’d be good at poker. Then her face seems to soften.
‘OK. Robin, you’re off the job.’ She says this with such disappointment in her voice I want to cry. It’s worse than her fury. She takes a breath. ‘I’ll have to fix this up and send it off. I’ll let you know how we get on with it.’ She gets up to leave.
‘But it was my idea. I love this concept!’ I say in alarm.
‘Robin, this is unacceptable. Take the day off. Skye, get back to work. I’m going home to fix this and think about what, if anything, I can trust either of you with. I’m utterly let down,’ Natalie says as she gathers all her papers together and picks up her phone and Chloé bag.
As she leaves, I feel tears welling up. I didn’t deserve that. I worked hard on that proposal, and Skye’s obnoxious views have shot it down in flames. But I’m an idiot, too, I tell myself. I was working too hard, too tired to stop mistakes like this getting through. Maybe Natalie was wrong to trust me. I look up at Skye, still silent, and I feel my rage bubble up again. I shouldn’t have taken the blame for her. Now, because I tried to do the honourable thing, I’m probably going to get sacked. If I lose my job how will I afford the house? How will I look after Lyla? What will I say to Kath? Skye leaves silently behind Natalie. She doesn’t even look at me on the way out.
THE REST OF THE day is miserable. I decide not to go home, despite Natalie telling me I should. If I go, I’ll just wallow, so instead I stay and sort through all my usual admin, ensure the rotas are in good order, make a few calls about upcoming jobs and book myself onto all the straightforward ones for next week because I want to keep busy.
The morning’s events have left me utterly exhausted and the sick feeling hasn’t dissipated. But it’s no bug making me feel ill – I’m sick to the core with the humiliation of it all. It’s like that feeling you had when you were at school and your dad says he expected so much more of you when you got a D in your Physics mock-GCSE. It’s that same horrible physical shame all over again.
Lyla is back with Simon tonight (now fully recovered from wild-herb-vom-gate and a bottle of Calpol packed in her rucksack to live at Daddy’s amongst the St John’s Warts or whatever it’s called) to make up for his lost day yesterday, and the thought of an evening of soup for one doesn’t seem all that appealing.
On the drive home I give Lacey a call to see if she wants to pop over. I could do with
a bit of girl time. Maybe a makeover night like the olden days, or a few glasses of wine to drown my sorrows. I worked so hard on the proposal, and I desperately want Natalie to know it wasn’t me. I would never call someone a ‘fatty’. I’m not Valerie Pickering, for God’s sake! I think of all my efforts to teach Lyla about body positivity, all wasted. I consider telling Natalie the truth but I’m scarred by the time in junior school I ‘grassed up’ Gary Boldman and he threw gravel at my face during lunch break and yelled, ‘Snitches get stitches!’ I didn’t need stitches but I have always steered clear of telling on anyone ever again. I’m mortified by it all. I’m mortified by what Natalie must think of me now. I need a friend.
The phone rings and a chirpy voice answers. ‘Hi!’
‘You sound very chirpy for five on a Monday evening,’ I say, smiling for the first time since the morning. It’s nice to hear cheer. Maybe it’ll seep into me and I’ll feel it too.
‘Karl’s coming home early and we’re having a bit of an evening,’ she says with emphasis on ‘evening’.
‘Oh, very nice. I don’t suppose my offer of wine and chit-chat is any competition for an evening with Karl, then, is it?’ I say, half hoping that actually it is.
‘Ah, I’d have loved to but I’m ovulating,’ Lacey says as though that’s a perfectly normal thing to say.
‘Um, OK …’
‘I’ve bought these kits. They tell you when you’re at peak fertility and today’s the day. If we don’t do it today, we have less chance of fertilisation this month. We didn’t do it yesterday to strengthen his sperm so they’re in maximum condition tonight,’ she says perkily.
‘Oh wow, that sounds super sexy,’ I joke.
‘Needs must! I’m determined to do everything I can before we turn to IVF, and if the stick says I’m fertile, I’m going in!’
‘More like he is!’ I say, and we both laugh.
Good for her, I think as we hang up. I’m glad she’s happy and I’m glad she’s going to have an evening with Karl. I hope he’s as up for it as she is.
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