by Lauren Sams
There was definitely something tantalising about returning to work. About getting on the bus without having to wrangle the pram on, too, and using the commute to read a book for ten uninterrupted minutes. Wearing pants that weren’t described as ‘lounge wear’. Talking to adults about things other than where to buy the rumoured-to-be-sold-out Sophie the bloody Giraffe. Returning to deadlines and meetings and interviews and expectations might improve my sanity somewhat, I suspected. I’d always thrived on that stuff.
As Lee told me about the team and what I’d be doing, I counted the daycare centres within walking distance and wondered whether Jase could help with pick-ups. I fantasised about buying a new outfit. Putting on makeup. Using social media for something other than comparing myself to celebrity mothers who ran on the treadmill as their babies napped beside them (I liked to accompany this particular exercise in masochism with a large bowl of Doritos).
And if I was honest with myself, I didn’t know how much longer I could exist in this day-to-day way, without some promise of a life that was more stable, more routine. More like . . . my old life. I could handle my old life. It was predictable, but not boring. Now it was boring, but unpredictable. I could never be sure when I could leave the house because I never knew when Pip would sleep, or for how long. I dreaded being out in public when she had a meltdown. I was tired right down to my bones. In a few months our house had become oppressively small and I craved the outside world. I needed to get away from the dirty washing and the piles of dishes in the sink and the smell – the smell of milk and poo and stale air that took days to be flushed out in winter. On top of all that, the exhaustion had aged me ten years, give or take. My skin had taken on the grey pallor of a sickly child in an English period movie. I wore tracksuit pants almost exclusively – I even had a ‘nice’ pair. It made me sad just thinking about that. I had memories of wearing makeup, once, but even they seemed distant and uncharacteristic. Now, putting on moisturiser was Victoria’s Secret model-level maintenance.
‘Yep, I’ll do it,’ I found myself saying.
‘Really?’ Lee seemed surprised.
I paused. ‘Yep. I’m not a stay-at-home mum. It’s just not my bag.’
She repeated me, word for word. ‘Right! You’re not a stay-at-home mum. Of course you’re not! This is such great news, George! I’m going to tell Meredith right away, she’ll be so excited.’
I wasn’t a stay-at-home mum. That was the whole problem. I didn’t know what kind of mum I was.
Chapter 3
Pop!
‘Cheers to you, George!’ said Nina, pouring me a glass of bubbles. Real ones. I’d insisted on French, owing to both my recent pregnancy sobriety and my new job. I deserved real champagne. It hadn’t been difficult to twist Nina’s arm. In fact, she’d bought two bottles. I added ‘early signs of alcoholism’ to my Nina-related googling.
‘Thank you!’ I settled Pip on her tummy – tummy time, apparently, separated the genius wheat babies from the chaff – and took a glass, raising it to meet Nina’s.
‘To new beginnings,’ she announced brightly. I smiled and our glasses clinked, but I did wonder if perhaps it was slightly too soon for Nina to be toasting a new beginning. Her divorce hadn’t even gone through. Her high-school artwork was still at the old house, with Matt. She still had a faint tan line where her wedding rings used to be.
I brushed the thought aside. If anyone deserved a new beginning, it was Neen. The last year had pummelled her pretty mercilessly. She needed a reprieve, a new start. A life where she wasn’t married to Matt or trying to get pregnant. A life where she could just be Nina.
‘To new beginnings,’ I repeated.
‘Are you excited?’ Nina looked excited for me. So far, she was the only one. I’d told Jase earlier that week and he’d nodded, looking confused.
‘Who’ll look after the baby?’ he’d asked.
‘The baby? Her name is Pip.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be silly, George, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just wondering, that’s all.’
I crossed my arms against my chest. ‘She’s enrolled in daycare.’
‘Oh.’ He looked confused.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Why? Have you got any better ideas?’
‘Hey! What’s all the attitude for?’
I sighed. ‘Nothing. It’s . . . nothing. Do you have a problem with her going to daycare?’
He paused. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘No. I just . . .’ Here, I assumed he would put up his hand and offer to help. ‘I just thought your mum might pitch in and do a few days. Pip’s still so little, that’s all.’
Ellie and my mum had similar reactions. Mum wondered why on earth I wanted to go back to work so soon, ‘if at all, Georgina!’ and had promptly written me a cheque for $5000.
‘Mum! I don’t need this. It’s not about money.’ Well. It was a little bit about money. I certainly wasn’t working for free. But I didn’t want my mum bankrolling my life, especially now that I was a mother myself.
‘Well, why would you possibly want to go back to work now, Georgina, if not for the money? Look at this beautiful little baby. She needs you at home.’
I briefly wondered where I might dump Mum’s body if I committed murder right there before snapping back to reality. ‘Mum. That is a really outdated – not to mention totally sexist – idea. Most women go back to work now. We’re all leaning in these days.’
‘What?’
‘Leaning in. You’ve got to have a seat at the table, Mum.’
She pursed her lips. ‘And who is going to make dinner to put on that table, Georgina?’
Ellie had been much the same, only more passive in her aggression. ‘I wonder –’ she mused, bouncing Pip up and down, trying to settle her after I hadn’t been able to, ‘if a nanny isn’t a better idea than childcare,’ she said, giving ‘childcare’ the same tone as she might have used for ‘gulag’. ‘A nanny is less disruptive. More attentive. Some of them even make your dinner!’
A nanny did seem like a good idea. Especially one who’d serve you a steak dinner as you walked through the door after a long day. But I couldn’t get right with the idea of another woman in my apartment, taking care of Pip all day. It was ridiculous and selfish, and yet I couldn’t shake the fear that Pip would grow to love a nanny more than she loved me. We were hanging by a thread as it was.
‘Um, yeah, I am excited, actually,’ I told Nina. ‘Bought a new outfit and everything.’ Pip squealed. She was making more noises lately. Unfortunately for me, many of them were quite high-pitched and tended to be emitted between the hours of 2 and 3 am.
‘How was your last mother’s group?’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, it was fine. They’re nice. They gave me lactation tea.’
Nina furrowed her brow. ‘Oh. Interesting choice. As, like, a present?’
I nodded.
‘They don’t know you very well, do they?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Should I tell them a bottle of wine will do just fine in the future?’
‘Sure,’ I said, reaching for a wedge of sun-warmed brie. ‘Could you also tell them to stop asking me if Pip is sleeping through yet? Seriously, that shit is getting old.’
Nina pulled a face. ‘It’s totally fine that she’s not sleeping through the night.’
‘I know. It’s fine. She’s a baby. They’re not meant to sleep through the night right away,’ I said, repeating the mantra I had memorised. The problem was pretty much every other mother in my group had managed to get their baby to sleep through. I didn’t know how. I didn’t have the heart to let her cry it out, but I wasn’t hippie enough for co-sleeping. So instead Pip and I waged a nightly battle in which she would cry, I would tell myself this was going to be the night I would let her whimper until she finally fell asleep again, and then approximately two minutes later I would be picking her up and feeding her because it was the easiest way to get her back to sleep. It happened again the next hour, and the next, and t
he next.
‘Anyway, we’re not here to talk about sleeping. We’re here to celebrate this new chapter! It’s so great, George, you really deserve this. They really made a mess of things over at Jolie. I’m so glad you got this job.’
‘Thanks, Neen.’
She smiled and her phone pinged. The smile grew bigger.
‘Jed?’ I guessed.
She looked up, coy.
‘He’s been texting a lot,’ I said.
At first, Tinder had been a fun distraction for Nina. After dinner, the two of us would sit down with a glass of wine and Nina’s phone, giggling as we swiped dismissively left or gleefully right. It was like free, sexy shopping. But soon it became clear that Nina actually wanted to date one of these guys, and that just felt inherently weird to me. I was so used to Nina being with Matt that the idea of her being with someone else was bizarre. I’d assumed the phase would pass, like ombre highlights or the ice-bucket challenge, that she’d find a rebound guy and be done with it. And then she’d found Jed.
Jed wasn’t the first guy she’d met on Tinder, but he was the first she’d had a second date – and adult sleepover – with. There had been other guys, and they were all striking in their similarities. Their profile pictures were all either suit and sunnies or bare chests on the beach. What were they interested in? ‘Marathons – the 42-kilometre kind, and the Breaking Bad kind.’ ‘Working hard . . . and playing hard.’ ‘Healthy living – and the odd bottle of Mumm.’ Grooooooooaaaaaaan. Without exception, they were younger than Nina, sometimes by more than ten years.
She put the phone down. ‘Yeah. I think we’re . . . dating,’ she said, smiling bashfully.
‘Oh.’ Dating? That seemed sudden. ‘Well, that’s . . . good. Right?’
As Nina’s best friend, I didn’t really know how I was meant to feel about this turn of events. Was I supposed to be protective of her heart, and warn her that a rebound guy might not be the answer she was looking for? Was I supposed to support this clearly silly, sex-fuelled relationship with a minor (let’s call a spade a spade) because it was what Nina needed right now? Was I supposed to be loyal to Matt, in case they got back together?
‘Yeah! Definitely. I really like him.’
I smiled. ‘You got a crush, Nina Doherty?’
‘Um . . .’ Nina reached for the bottle, pursed her lips and smiled. ‘Yep. I do. A big fat one.’ She poured us both another glass, even though mine was still half-full.
‘Wow. Well, I think that’s . . . very cool,’ I said, trying to convince myself.
‘What?’ Nina asked, in the withering tone you use when your parents ask if there’ll be boys at the party.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I think it’s good. I do. It’s good to have a rebound.’
‘Really?’ asked Neen, sceptical.
I nodded, far too fast. ‘Absolutely. Yes. Yes,’ I said, really emphasising the last yes. I skolled the newly full glass and reached for the bottle again. Nina raised an eyebrow.
‘Good. I’m glad you’re supportive of this. It means a lot.’
I gulped down half a glass. ‘Sure. Of course.’
‘Because the thing is, well, he might not just be a rebound. I like him.’
Pip squealed again, and in the distance, I swear I heard a dog howl. Nina picked her up for a cuddle, and Pip cooed into her neck. For the briefest of seconds, I saw Neen close her eyes and breathe in the embrace, before she laid Pip down on the rug again. I’d seen her do this more than a few times before. It broke my heart.
‘He might not just be a break-up bone, you know?’
I said nothing.
Nina matched my silence.
‘Isn’t that –’
‘A bit quick?’ Nina interrupted. ‘Maybe. But you know, maybe not. When you think about it, I’ve really wasted a lot of my life. I have a lot of stuff to catch up on.’
I baulked. ‘Like what?’
Nina shrugged. ‘Everything! I need to travel. I need to meet people. I need to be . . . be more me. I mean . . . that’s really what it boils down to: who am I? I feel like I don’t even know anymore.’
I was suddenly grateful for the extra bottle of booze.
Nina was in the gesticulation phase of her sermon now, hands in the air like an evangelical pastor. ‘Do I even want to be a teacher anymore? Part of me was only there for the school holidays, you know, for when I had a kid. And now . . . well, that’s not going to happen.’
I took a breath. What was Nina on about? Tinder was one thing – changing her career was something else entirely. I knew she was hurting, of course, and I knew life had fucked her over, but I’d never heard Nina talk like this before.
‘Really? But you love teaching.’
She shrugged. ‘I did. Well, I do. But I never even stopped to think that there might be something else I want to do.’
‘Like what?’ Pip had rolled over onto her back and I picked her up, attaching her to my boob on autopilot, wondering what passersby glancing in the window thought of the chick with a baby on her left boob and a glass of champagne in her right hand.
Nina threw her hands up. ‘I don’t know! Maybe I’d be a good . . . lawyer? Or . . . architect? Maybe I could be a writer? A baker? Yeah . . . I mean, why not go to culinary school and become a pastry chef?’
I stared at her.
‘Neen, you don’t want to be a pastry chef. You’ve never even made a cake.’
‘Because I never thought I could! But what if I can? What if there’s a whole other me, just dying to get out, and I’ve never given it the chance? Maybe I could start one of those . . . what are they called? Start-ups! Maybe I could be a DJ. Or a wedding celebrant. Or a comedian.’
What could I say to that? The answer, it turns out, is nothing . . . but laughter. I couldn’t help it.
‘Why are you laughing? It’s not funny,’ Nina said. She looked hurt.
‘Hon . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just . . . this is all so out of the blue. For me, at least.’
Nina crossed her arms. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it for a few months. OK, so maybe technically I haven’t “wasted” anything, but George . . . I have to make some changes. My life has done a complete 180. I need to figure out –’ she threw her hands up again ‘– all this.’ By the time she’d finished speaking, her voice was whisper-soft and her eyes were fixed on me, needing me to understand. I set down my glass and put my hand on hers.
‘Look, hon, I know everything is weird right now. That’s to be expected – so much has changed. But try not to make any rash decisions, OK? Trust me, you have not wasted your life.’
She flashed a small, tight smile and sipped her champagne. I knew she was all over the place – hello, 25-year-old bartender! – but she had to understand that this was all normal, considering what she’d just been through. She had wanted me to have her baby. Instead, I’d had my own. She’d broken up with her husband, her high-school sweetheart. She’d moved in with me and Pippa. A lot of shit had gone down. So yeah, she had a bit of soul-searching to do. But she was still Nina.
Wasn’t she?
Because if Nina wasn’t Nina, who did that make me?
*
In my mind, I was ready to go back to work. Apprehensive, maybe, but ready. I had psyched myself up for it. I had planned for every eventuality. If Pip was stricken with a dreaded daycare lurgy – which Ellie had warned me about so frequently, I fully expected Pip to fall victim to whooping cough before the week was out – I had a back-up plan (her name was Mum). Nina had promised to pick Pippa up, but if she couldn’t, I’d arranged with Meredith, my new boss, to leave early. It wouldn’t happen often, I’d promised. I could count on Nina. I’d found the fastest route to the station from our house, and Pip and I had even practised it. I was ready. I could do this.
Meeting with Meredith had confirmed that yes, I was meant to take this job. Tall, thin and expensive-looking, Meredith had her shit firmly together. She smiled warmly and shook my hand. ‘Georgina?’<
br />
‘George is fine,’ I said. ‘Meredith?’ The question was redundant. I’d been up half the night googling Meredith Parker. I knew exactly what she looked like.
‘Ms Parker,’ she said, looking serious. I paused, and she burst into high-pitched laughter. ‘Meredith! It’s Meredith! I’m kidding, I’m kidding.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Sit down,’ she said, gesturing to the chair opposite hers. Her office looked like an ad – pens sat upright in a stylish gold jar; laptop closed on the desk, thin and flat. Typographical posters screamed witty entrepreneurial inspiration from behind her desk. A mug emblazoned with ‘But first, coffee’ sat clean and seemingly unused next to a stack of books that included Lean In and Thrive. I liked Meredith already. ‘So,’ she said, smiling broadly, ‘are you ready to be editor again?’ It wasn’t a challenge: it was an invitation.
‘Yes,’ I said, perfectly confident. ‘Yes, I am.’
And I was ready to work with this woman. Meredith Parker was a publishing legend. In my baby brain fog, I somehow hadn’t recognised her name when Lee had first told me about the job. But a quick search and I suddenly realised: holy shit, this is the Meredith Parker. At twenty-four, she became the youngest editor – worldwide – of gisele, a smart, sassy magazine for smart, sassy ladies. At the time, it was tanking, but in less than two years Meredith turned the ship around and made the magazine a powerhouse. She was friends with the celebrities she put on the covers and the advertisers who bought pages. At thirty, she became the magazine’s publisher – unprecedented at the time – and soon took on even more titles, showing a knack for reviving the particularly profitless. When gisele famously ran out of inventory – meaning that all the ads were sold, for the entire year – she dreamed up spin-off titles: gisele girl, gisele guy, gisele home and gisele at work. All but gisele guy were runaway successes (perhaps male magazine readers were not quite so smart and sassy?).
After all that, Meredith had been lured to New York to head up a new network of websites. It was the mid-2000s and everyone was excited about this crazy new thing called ‘The Internet’. Anyone who was anyone had a MySpace page. But the idea of getting information online? Getting your news online? Still preposterous. Nobody could have imagined, at the time, the octopus-like reach of the Lurker network. Soon Lurker, a NY gossip site, spawned more sites: TechBible (geeks), HunterGatherer (food geeks) and Capitol (political geeks). And Meredith had been there from the beginning, convincing people that the internet was here to stay, and that there was no need to be afraid.