Having It All

by Maeve Haran

  He slammed the door.

  Thirty seconds later Viv, her secretary, put her head round, smiling in commiseration. She’d probably heard every word through these ludicrous partition walls.

  ‘Cosmopolitan have been on the phone. And Elle, the Daily Mail and Hello magazine. I think you must have touched a nerve.’

  She wasn’t going to talk to anyone. She’d made her stand. Now she just wanted to forget the whole thing and concentrate on getting on with the job.

  ‘Oh and that dreadful Steffi Wilson rang too. She thought you might be interested. They’re doing a follow-up tomorrow. They’ve had so much response they’ve given a double page spread to readers’ letters.’

  Liz dropped her head into her hands. Keeping the issue going was the last thing she wanted. Conrad would go berserk.

  ‘Have you seen the interview with Liz in the World today?’ Melanie Mason sipped her Margarita and looked past her two friends nervously to see who might be listening.

  It had been Mel’s idea to ask Liz’s three best friends to come and celebrate her triumph here at The Groucho Club. As editor of Femina, the WorkingWoman’s bible, Mel liked to keep herself visible in London’s trendy media haunts and there was nowhere trendier than The Groucho. But when she’d suggested it she hadn’t realized Liz was suddenly going to become so talked about. If she’d known she would have suggested somewhere less packed with sleazy gossip columnists and media groupies.

  Mel looked over the top of her huge dark glasses at her two friends. Britt was as sickeningly stylish as usual in a severe black suit with a subtle little necklace made out of giant shards of coloured glass. Show it to your average street gang and they’d marvel that people in London were paying for broken glass round the neck when they would have been only too happy to supply it free.

  She’d got a new hairstyle too, Mel noted. Her blonde hair had been cut short. God, it actually made her look vulnerable. Amazing how deceptive appearances can be. Britt was the only person she knew who looked like a woman and behaved like a man.

  ‘She must be out of her mind, talking like that.’ Britt snapped her fingers at a passing waitress and ordered a bottle of Lanson. She rummaged in her Chanel bag for her wallet.

  Mel grinned. Britt was never one to miss a chance to flash her Amex Gold card. ‘You don’t need to pay yet, Britt,’ she pointed out.

  Britt flushed with irritation. She hated getting it wrong socially, loathed the thought that people might guess her background despite the chic clothes and laid-back style. She put the card away. She must get over this stupid fear of not having enough money with her.

  ‘Well I think she was very brave.’ Both of them looked at Ginny as she sipped her Virgin Mary. She was driving back home to Sussex tonight.

  God, who could drink a Bloody Mary without the vodka? Mel marvelled. Ginny could, of course. Even at university she’d been the Head Girl type. You’d half expected her to go and report you for petting below the waist or being on the Pill.

  Ginny pushed back a strand of wispy fair hair and fiddled with her earring. Places like this made her nervous. She’d taken a lot of care choosing her clothes tonight, picking the only suit in her wardrobe, trying to camouflage herself as a Working Woman. But as soon as she’d walked in here she’d been reminded she wasn’t part of this world at all. Here everyone wore drop-dead black and skirts were a uniform three inches above the knee, not mid-calf like hers. These people would die before patronizing Giovanni, Hair Artiste of East Grinstead. The receptionist could almost have handed her one of those stickers you got at conferences: GINNY WALKER, HOUSEWIFE.

  ‘Hello girls. Waiting for someone?’

  Wrapped in their discussion of whether Liz should or shouldn’t have done it, none of them had noticed her arrive. But everyone else in the club had. Mel saw drinkers nudge each other and whisper behind their hands. Whether she liked it or not, Liz had become an Instant Celebrity.

  ‘Well,’ teased Mel, handing her a glass of Britt’s champagne, ‘if it isn’t the tearful TV mogul. What kept you? Been weeping on Wogan?’

  ‘Give me a break, would you, Mel? I’ve had it up to here already from Conrad.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ Mel moved over on the low sofa to make room for her. ‘I mean he was hardly going to be pleased, was he?’

  ‘I didn’t do it for Conrad,’ she said wearily. She wished they could talk about something else, but everywhere she went this was all people wanted to discuss.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ asked Britt, trying to sound casual, hoping her resentment wouldn’t show. In fact she was furious with Liz. It was typical that Liz had landed a job anyone else would have killed for and she didn’t even seem to value it enough to keep her mouth shut.

  For as long as Britt could remember Liz had had things too easily: private school, holidays abroad, a car, even David, the cleverest student of his year. She hadn’t had to fight for anything like Britt had. And even though it had been Liz who’d invited her, the grammar-school kid, into their posh little group at college, Britt had never really understood why. She kept feeling that Liz had done her a favour. And she hated people doing her favours.

  Liz bit into a crisp savagely. ‘I did it for me. I just got fed up with pretending it was all effortless, that’s all. Having to make high-powered decisions all day after being up all night coping with colic. Being expected to shut the door on your children and not give them a second thought.’ She turned accusingly on Mel. ‘Do you know what I read in your bloody magazine? An article on going back to work that told you never to mention your kids, because men don’t, and to wear red nail varnish because it makes you look less like a mother!’

  Mel looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a bit over the top on all this? Plenty of women with kids work. In fact, most of Femina’s readership are working women.’

  ‘And do you tell them the truth? You haven’t even got kids, Mel, and Olivia prefers cats, for God’s sake. Yet you do nothing but push this image of women with the Wall Street Journal in one hand and a baby in the other, zapping the Board and still home for bath-time. Take it from me, Mel, it’s bullshit!’

  Mel looked around embarrassed, and sipped her Margarita, for once not springing to the magazine’s defence. Olivia McEwan, Femina’s founder and now its publisher, had just discovered The Family and suddenly no photograph appeared without happy toddlers crawling all over their power-suited mamas. Olivia had decided that children were what admen called ‘sexy’. In other words they sold magazines, like free cars or Princess Di.

  In fact, a piece on Executive Mothers had hit Mel’s desk just before she left for The Groucho. None of the mothers in that were whingeing on like Liz.

  ‘I’d have thought the solution was obvious.’ Britt emptied the last of her champagne and drummed her fingers on the empty glass. ‘If you’ve got a career, don’t have kids. It’s simple.’

  ‘Simple for you,’ flashed Liz. Britt’s studied disinterest was beginning to get up her nose. ‘You don’t want any.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Britt,’ snapped Mel. ‘That’s what the last generation of women did. We were supposed to be different! We believe in Having It All, remember?’

  ‘Maybe we were wrong.’ Bored with the conversation Britt snapped her fingers at the waitress for another bottle of champagne.

  ‘Of course we weren’t wrong! Liz is the one who’s wrong!’ Mel turned to Liz furiously, forgetting where she was. ‘And I hope you realize the damage you’ve done to other women’s prospects with that little outburst of yours!’

  Ginny watched the anger flashing between her three friends in horror. She was shocked at the bitterness the subject seemed to be arousing. She’d stayed out of it till now. What did she know after all about juggling children and a career?

  She’d always been a stay-at-home wife. Wasting her talents, as her high-powered mother never missed an opportunity to point out. You could have been a painter was her mother’s continual refrain. But children wer
e small for so short a time. You turned around for a moment and they had grown up and left you. Anyway her mother could talk. She had been too busy being a surgeon to bother with Ginny and her brother. Well, it wasn’t going to be like that for her children.

  In spite of herself, Ginny couldn’t help being glad that Liz was finding it so hard to cope. It made her feel better about herself. Of course Liz would never do anything about it. She had no conception of what being a full-time mother was like, the way people looked bored when you told them what you did, and turned away from you at parties to look for someone more interesting. It drove her mad the way motherhood was held so cheap these days.

  And even though you wanted to be a mother you found yourself devalued all the same. She loved making a home, adored looking after Amy and Ben, felt happy and fulfilled by being the centre of her family, yet she still felt boring and limited in the company of career women – even these, her best friends.

  ‘So, what will you do?’ she asked Liz.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. See how things work out. Maybe I’ll find that under Conrad’s chauvinistic exterior there lurks a New Man who appreciates that caring and sensitivity are just as important as toughness and aggression. Who knows, maybe he’ll even relent and let me see my kids once in a while.’

  ‘Or maybe not.’ Britt drained her glass and held it out for more.

  ‘Come on, girls.’ Liz picked up the bottle of champagne and refilled their glasses. ‘We came for a celebration not a wake, remember. What are we having to eat?’

  ‘Where to, Mrs Ward?’ Liz’s chauffeur opened the door of The Groucho Club and helped Liz and Britt into the back of the gleaming Jaguar XJ6.

  ‘Notting Hill please, Jim. My friend wants to pick up her car.’

  Britt leaned back and stroked the soft cream leather of the seat. She breathed it in deeply. The smell of the leather in Jaguars always seemed more genuine than it did in other cars. She couldn’t understand why Liz wasn’t happy when she had all this. For Christ’s sake, how many women got a chauffeur-driven Jag with their job?

  ‘This car’s divine. Did you have to fight hard to get it?’

  Liz laughed. ‘Actually I asked for a Space Wagon, not an XJ6. You should have seen Conrad’s face! “But that’s a kiddie carrier! I’m giving you a black XJ6 with cream leather seats. That’s what LWT’s Controller has. We can’t have you driving round looking like a mum from Surbiton!”’

  Typical, Britt thought bitterly. She couldn’t help feeling that Liz’s contempt for the rewards of success was somehow directed at her. What was wrong with wanting an XJ6? Or a Porsche? Or a penthouse in Docklands? Britt wanted them all right. And so, if she wasn’t much mistaken, did Liz’s husband.

  Britt looked at her curiously. ‘So what does the divine David think of all these True Confessions – and in his rival paper too? I would have thought with all these rumours about Logan Greene bringing in some kid from the World to get the News off the skids, he might be a teeny-weeny bit pissed off.’

  So that was it! That was why David had been so preoccupied. For God’s sake, why hadn’t he told her? And she’d talked to the Daily World, of all papers, and tomorrow there would be more of it. He’d never forgive her! Liz was glad it was dark in the car and Britt couldn’t see the apprehension in her face.

  ‘To be honest, Britt, I don’t know. We’ve never really talked about it.’

  Britt raised an elegantly pencilled eyebrow. So, the perfect marriage had its problems, did it?

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘Mum, where’s Dad?’ A little hand was tugging at the duvet, trying to uncover Liz who had buried herself mole-like right underneath.

  She sat up quickly and looked at the clock-radio. Eight a.m. David must have gone for a run. Now they’d never have a chance to talk sensibly. She should have told him last night but when Jim had dropped her off the house had been in darkness and he was already asleep. He’d looked almost boyish, with all worries of editing a paper wiped from his face.

  She’d wondered whether to disturb him but he was hopeless when he was woken up. When the children were tiny he’d even managed to sleep through the colic and teething and wake up the next day bright and breezy insisting she should have woken him. On the one occasion she did, he was so irritable she decided it wasn’t worth it. And she’d decided it probably wouldn’t be worth it last night. Her head was pounding with too much talk and champagne. So she’d decided to wait till the morning. Now she realized what a stupid mistake that had been.

  She leaped out of bed and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day. Another glorious summer. Not that she’d be seeing much of it. She looked in Daisy’s room but Susie must already have got her up and taken her down to breakfast.

  ‘Come on, Jamie, get those pyjamas off and put on your shorts. It’s lovely outside.’ She tried to grab him but he ducked out of her arm, slippery as an eel.

  She chased him, but he’d already hidden behind the dressing table just out of reach and was yelling, ‘Won’t! Don’t want to!’ She felt the irritation rising. It was the same every morning. Sometimes she couldn’t believe a child of five had so much strength. Yomping across the Falklands had nothing on trying to get Jamie dressed.

  ‘Jamie! Come out!’ She leaned across and picked him up bodily, kicking and screaming, almost ricking her back as she did so. In an effort to get his pyjamas off and his shorts on she tried every trick she knew: cajoling, distracting, promising forbidden treats. In the end it took brute force as usual.

  Keep calm, she told herself, don’t lose your temper. It’s your fault, not his. He never sees you. She was worn out, her nerves frayed, and it was only eight-fifteen. So much for quality time.

  In the end she carried Jamie downstairs to save time, noticing with annoyance that a large brown envelope was lying in wait for her on the mat. It must be the script for the controversial documentary they were due to show tomorrow. The lawyers were having kittens about it and she would have to read it on her way to work and decide whether they were right.

  The first thing she saw when they went into the kitchen was David in his tracksuit reading the Daily World.

  Shit, thought Liz, shit, shit, shit.

  He looked up. ‘You seem to have caused quite a stir.’

  She could hear the bitter edge to his voice.

  ‘Mummy!’ Jamie pulled at the folds of her suit. ‘Mum, can I blow up the paddling pool?’

  ‘Of course you can. Ask Susie to help you. Go on, she’s feeding Daisy on the patio.’ Jamie rushed off through the French windows in search of Susie.

  David looked up from the paper. ‘How long has all this been brewing?’

  Liz sat down next to him. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t even know I felt like that till I did the interview. That cow had been nosing around trying to find anything she could on what a terrible mother I am. She’d hung around Jamie’s school, for God’s sake, and talked to some pushy mother who thinks I should be reported for child neglect. She was going to crucify me. So I decided telling the truth was my only option.’

  For some reason she didn’t mention Susie’s part in all this. She hadn’t decided what to do about her yet and she knew David would fire her on the spot.

  ‘So you had a little sob on Steffi Wilson’s shoulder instead?’ The resentment in his voice felt like a razor blade slicing at her raw nerves. It was partly her fault that he didn’t understand. She’d never tried to explain how she felt torn in two even to herself, let alone to him. Could she blame him for being angry when he’d had to find out from a newspaper, and a rival one at that?

  ‘I suppose you realize how ridiculous you’ve made me look?’

  She could tell he was struggling with his temper in front of Susie and the children. ‘My wife’s having a mid-life crisis and I’m the last to know.’ He threw the paper down on the kitchen table. ‘You could at least have given us the story instead of the bloody World!’

  Liz looked at her husband, hurt that he s
eemed to be seeing it simply in terms of who got the scoop of Liz Ward baring her soul. All he seemed to think about these days was the paper.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give it to the News.’ She heard the answering bitterness in her own voice. ‘Maybe when I announce my resignation I’ll come to you first.’ But the irony was lost on David.

  ‘Everyone in London knows that the World is decimating us. Logan’s brought Mick Norman in as “Special Adviser” waiting in the wings to pounce if this slide goes on, and you hand them the moving story of your secret sadness on a plate.’

  ‘Everyone in London may have known that, but not me. Because you didn’t tell me, David. I’m your wife and I’m the last person to know. Maybe if you had told me all this wouldn’t have happened!’ She knew it was cruel, but she felt suddenly, blazingly angry. ‘And you’ve been so caught up with your stupid circulation war that you wouldn’t have noticed even if I had been having a mid-life crisis!’

  David took his feet off the table and came over to her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being a selfish shit.’

  ‘Anyway, it isn’t a bloody mid-life crisis. I just miss the children, that’s all.’

  As if on cue, Jamie rushed into the kitchen to find his parents in each other’s arms.

  ‘Mum . . . Mum! Come and see the paddling pool!’

  ‘Jamie, I’m trying to talk to Daddy, darling. I’ll be out in a minute.’ Poor Jamie, he was always competing for her attention these days. She stroked his hair lovingly.

  Seeing her ruffle Jamie’s hair, David felt the stirrings of guilt. They looked so lovely together. Jamie was so like her, dark hair, bright blue eyes, long limbs, extrovert one minute, shy the next. Daisy was the one who took after him. Blonde-haired strutting little Daisy who knew what she wanted and went for it. He wasn’t sure he understood Liz. She seemed to keep changing her mind about what she wanted.