Crazy, Busy, Guilty

by Lauren Sams

  ‘A chef could be good,’ Meredith said, nodding. ‘Chefs are really big. People like food, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said, as if I was personally confirming that people liked to eat. ‘OK. Well, this guy . . . Daniel . . . Something,’ I guessed, ‘he has this no-waste philosophy.’ I tried to remember exactly what Neil the Fucking Food Writer had told us. Neil usually went on at such length that, after the second sentence or so, I tried to have a microsleep. ‘And, uh, he . . . makes this pasta out of broccoli stems.’

  Meredith’s lip curled. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, apparently it’s amazing. He’s in Brisbane. I think it could be cool.’

  ‘Brisbane? Ugh. No. Get me someone in Sydney or Melbourne.’

  ‘Why not Brisbane?’

  Meredith smirked. ‘Nobody cares about Brisbane. Advertisers don’t care about Brisbane.’

  ‘What if Miranda Kerr moved to Brisbane?’

  Meredith let out a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, George! This is what I love about you. You’ve got such a good sense of humour.’

  ‘Right. So, uh . . . is that a no to Daniel?’

  Meredith furrowed her brow. ‘Yes. That’s a no. But I like the chef idea. Get someone from MasterChef.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not on TV right now –’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Get the hot one. The one who made the chocolate mousse. Blonde. Starts with a . . . You know him.’

  I squinted, as if this might help me work out who she was talking about, but I had no idea.

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure –’

  Meredith pushed her chair out. ‘He’s great. Get him.’

  ‘Uh, OK. I’ll ask the team,’ I said, as Meredith headed for the door. ‘Wait – what about the rest of these covers?’

  She kept walking. ‘You’ll figure it out, George.’

  *

  ‘Hey, Neil,’ I said, sidling up to his desk. He took his headphones out and leaned back.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Listen, Meredith wants to do a cover story on MasterChef. Some guy who was on it – blonde? He made chocolate mousse?’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t watch it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I took a breath. ‘But aren’t you . . . the food writer? Isn’t that sort of your beat?’

  He raised one cynical brow. ‘I am the food writer. But I don’t consider watching MasterChef part of my beat.’

  ‘OK. So you don’t know who he is?’

  He shook his head, smirking. ‘Maybe ask Valerie. She’s mad for Gary, I hear.’

  I forced a tight smile and turned away. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hey,’ he called as I walked away. ‘What’d you think of that pitch I sent you?’

  I turned back. ‘Which one?’

  Neil sent me at least seven pitches daily, mostly forwarded ideas from PRs who wanted to send him on fully-funded trips to Turks and Caicos or Casablanca or Nashville to sample the local food. So he was fine with PR-funded trips, just not reality TV. The line had to be drawn somewhere.

  ‘Manchester. It’s really pumping right now.’

  ‘Manchester? In England?’

  He nodded, smiling. He was quite handsome, really, once you got over the fact that he was a massive wanker.

  ‘It’s amazing. You know Jonas Silberhorn has opened there?’

  I stared back and, after a beat, began nodding, as if I knew exactly who or what Jonas Silberhorn was.

  ‘Three Michelin stars. Runs Stront, in Copenhagen? Recently voted best restaurant in the world . . .?’

  ‘So he’s a big deal?’

  Neil paused. ‘The biggest. It’s a great story. I’ll get to spend a whole day with him, I can do a profile.’

  ‘Right. And you want to go to Manchester for this?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, it’d make a great story.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t think too long. I need to go in May.’

  ‘Why?’

  He grinned. ‘Premier League Grand Final.’

  I blinked. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Premier League. Soccer. Football.’ He cocked his head. ‘David Beckham?’ he added, not even trying to hide his disdain.

  ‘I know what soccer is, Neil. So – is there really anything going on in Manchester or do you just want a free trip to the soccer?’

  ‘Well . . . Jonas Silberhorn is there.’ He had the nerve to look playfully affronted. What was he doing? He was humiliating me in front of everyone. I’d only just started and he was dressing me down, stripping me of authority.

  ‘Do you have an interview with him, or not?’

  He paused again. ‘I can line one up.’

  ‘May, was it?’ I shot him a shit-eating grin. ‘What a shame you can’t go. That’s when MasterChef starts again.’ I turned on my heel and left.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Hello! Anyone home?’ I heard Nina call softly. Even when Pip was awake, we’d taken to speaking in stage whispers. It had become so normal, we often did it when we were out, too. Nothing says ‘I live with a newborn baby’ quite like ordering your pancakes so quietly that you actually get served a croque madame.

  ‘Hey!’ I whispered. ‘In here!’

  I set Pippa down gently on the couch, hoping she wouldn’t stir. She’d been asleep on my chest for the last forty minutes, which was nice, but the Holy Grail of naps, I’d discovered, was when your baby slept and you were not attached to her in any way, allowing you to go about your business as you please. So liberating! So useful! Time had been reconfigured entirely in this new world, and a period of twenty minutes spent like this, with Pippa asleep in her cot or on the couch, could basically be used to solve world hunger.

  Yesterday I’d put a load of washing on, got the dry washing in, folded it, chopped vegetables for dinner, cleared my inbox and made myself a cup of tea in the precious half-hour I had. It astounded me that nobody had thought to involve the mothers of newborns in Israel and Palestine to sort their problems out. Honestly, a week of nap times could do more for the Middle East crisis than any UN accord.

  When I got to the kitchen, Nina was packing the groceries away. I bent to help her and noticed new muscles bulging in her arms. I pointed to them.

  ‘What are these?’ I asked, teasing.

  Nina smiled. ‘I’ve been doing Bikram with Jed.’

  ‘You look good. Have you lost weight?’ Nina had always been slim, but now she looked thin. Proper Hollywood thin. The kind of thin that had people on the verge of asking if you were OK. The kind of thin we all bitched about but wished we were.

  Nina nodded back. ‘A bit, I think. I’ve been running a lot, too. Clears my head.’

  I bent to pick up a box of wine. ‘Whoa, how many bottles are in here?’

  Nina ignored me. ‘It’s OK, let me do it,’ she said. ‘You must be exhausted. I heard Pippa waking last night.’ I put the box down and let Nina’s newfound upper-body strength take the weight.

  ‘Yeah, I think she’s teething.’

  I didn’t really know if Pip was teething or not, but it seemed like a possibility. I’d heard Jane, leader of the mother’s group, talk about teething as if it were an affliction on par with, say, the plague. She’d said that every child went through it, so it could be true. I had to cling to the idea that there was a reason my child was fucking with me.

  Nina flashed a supportive smile. ‘That’s tough. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m alright.’

  I felt better with Nina home. She was hardly ever here now – occasionally she’d pop home for breakfast and a shower before heading to work, but most of the time she was with Jed. It was like living with a flight attendant. I was lonely. At work, I felt old. I didn’t know if I was the only one with a kid, but it felt like it - nobody else ever mentioned children. They all seemed so young. Meredith’s assistant, Bea, had laughed when I’d asked how Snapchat worked, then her face dropped when she realised I was serious. She laid a comforting hand on mine and said, ‘Oh my god, I had no idea,’ as if
she’d just found out that my mother had died. And at home, I was just alone. I had imagined that Nina and I living together would be one long Netflix session. But I spent most nights on the couch by myself, flicking through TV shows I knew I wouldn’t stay awake for, one eye on the door. When Nina did come home, it was great. Most of the time. When she wasn’t banging on about quitting her job or dating a foetus or becoming a yoga instructor (I sensed it was coming), Nina was still Nina. My best mate, my confidante, the one person I could rely on to get me.

  Nina crouched down to load the fridge with cheese, milk, yoghurt. ‘So there’s heaps of stuff for dinner in here. I picked up some of those meatballs we had last week from the butcher.’

  ‘Great, thank you. I will heat up a jar of sauce and pour it over them and call it cooking.’

  ‘Sounds delicious.’

  ‘And you, Miss Wino Forever, can open the red,’ I said, trying to address Nina’s recent surge in drinking without, you know, accusing her of a recent surge in drinking.

  She stared up at me. ‘Huh?’

  I shrugged. ‘I just noticed that the recycling bin tends to fill up a lot quicker these days.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, well, I’m making up for lost time, aren’t I? Hey, speaking of which, did you see Eileen’s recycling bin?’

  ‘No,’ I said, panicking. ‘Why?’

  Nina laughed. ‘She’s got this funny sign on the top of it. “Property of Eileen McGilvray. No foreign objects.” Hand me those mushrooms, will you?’

  I exhaled and laughed nervously. Every time I had seen Eileen since The Incident, she had dramatically turned away as if the very sight of me was too much for her to bear. ‘Oh, right. You know,’ I said, turning away from Neen so she wouldn’t catch me in a lie, ‘I think Eileen might be a bit of a drinker. Blackberry nip.’ I mimed a drinking motion.

  ‘Really?’ Neen asked, looking up from the fridge. ‘Geez, wouldn’t have picked it.’

  Oh good. First I swore at this poor woman and now I’m accusing her of having a drinking problem. What an excellent example I’m providing for my daughter.

  I veered back on course, desperately hoping Nina Doherty, Social Justice Warrior, wouldn’t try to ‘help’ Eileen with her ‘problem’. ‘Anyway, dinner sounds great. It’ll be nice to have a chance to catch up.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be here,’ she said, her head in the fridge again. ‘I’m going out with Jed.’

  Of course.

  I raised an eyebrow behind Nina’s back. I knew I’d probably be going nuts with my 25-year-old boyfriend, too, if I’d just gotten divorced after almost two decades with my high-school sweetheart. But I definitely would not fall for him. And neither should Nina. I mean, she couldn’t meet the next love of her life on a hook-up app. Could she?

  ‘Oh, cool.’ I feigned interest as best I could. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Don’t know. Food, probably. Drinks. He said he’s broke so nothing fancy.’

  Gee, what a catch. I rolled my eyes inwardly. Nina was about to get divorced for this? What had become of romance? Or at least a decent bottle of red? I prayed – somewhat redundantly, I suspected – that Nina wouldn’t be funding this date herself. Obviously I’m a card-carrying, abortion-granting, Tina-and-Amy-shipping feminist, but for Christ’s sake, couldn’t Jed fork out for a couple of burgers?

  ‘Great.’

  So tonight, like every other night this week, there’d be nobody to help me bath Pippa. Nobody to ask if I needed a glass of water as I settled down to feed her before bed. Nobody to call out to for help if she spewed all over me as I fed her. Nobody to take over if (let’s be real: when) she just wouldn’t go to sleep. Nobody to talk to when she finally drifted off, nobody to take the edge off the day with. Nobody to watch Orange is the New Black with. Nobody to bitch to about what a bitch Piper is.

  I ducked my head around the corner to check on Pip. Miraculous. Still asleep.

  ‘Neen,’ I said, gesturing for her to join me. ‘Come here.’

  She stood beside me. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Look at her.’ I pointed to Pip, her eyes blissfully closed, her little fists resting next to her head, her mouth slightly open, her steady breath making her chest rise and fall with slow grace. She was perfect. ‘Isn’t she amazing?’

  ‘Yep.’ Nina promptly turned around and walked back to the fridge.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Nina said nothing.

  ‘Neen? You alright?’

  ‘Yep,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘Hey, um . . . whatever ended up happening with that guy?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Nina stood and turned to me. She looked perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had happened. ‘Alex. That’s his name, right? The Tinder guy?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. I’d forgotten about him.’

  Nina rolled her eyes. ‘George! Come on. Where’s your phone?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  She stared at me. ‘Go get it. He probably messaged you back last week.’

  ‘Yeah . . . I’m not interested. Let’s just leave it.’

  ‘George. Go and get the phone. Now.’

  I sighed. ‘Why?’

  Nina shot me a withering look. ‘Because you need some fun.’

  I do! I wanted to say. I do need some fun! With my best friend. Who is right here, and who shouldn’t leave me alone. Again.

  ‘Alright.’

  So I went to retrieve the phone. No missed calls or messages from Meredith. Another miracle.

  ‘Here you go.’ I handed the phone to Nina.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have a look. See if he’s messaged.’

  She stared at me, confused. ‘Are you serious? You don’t know how to do this?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Did you only use Tinder that time in the cafe with Ellie and me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Oh my god, George. You are so lucky you have me.’

  Nina tapped at the screen then let out a triumphant ‘ha!’

  ‘It’s a maaa-aaatch!’ she said, Oprah-style. ‘He messaged you. Oh my god, he messaged you three days ago. This is actually so perfect. You’ve got the upper hand.’

  For once, my inability to get my shit together had worked in my favour. Nice.

  ‘What did he say?’

  She glanced down. ‘“Hi.”’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. OK, now you say “hi” back.’ She handed me the phone.

  I typed dutifully.

  ‘Isn’t this exciting?’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘For some.’

  Nina frowned, arranging fruit into the bowl. ‘Do you not want to do this?’

  I took the bowl from her and removed the fruit, pointing to the sticky sap of an uneaten pear making a well in the bottom of the bowl. ‘Gross, Neen. Can you please clean the bowl before you put the fruit in it?’

  ‘OK, Martha Stewart, calm down, I’ll wash it.’

  What had happened to me? I had never been the person worried about the fruit bowl. I had never even owned a fruit bowl.

  Nina looked over from the sink as she washed the offending bowl. ‘Are you annoyed with me?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’ Yes.

  ‘Do you want me to stay home?’ she asked.

  ‘No! Definitely not. Of course not.’ Lies, lies, lies. Of course I wanted Neen to stay home. ‘No, don’t be silly. You don’t need to be home on my account. Go out, be young, see the world.’ It wasn’t a genuine offer. It was a ‘Look what a good friend I am, now please stay home with me’ offer. I needed her here.

  ‘I feel bad. I should be here with you.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I lied.

  ‘Maybe you should get Jase to babysit soon and come out with us,’ she said, her voice hopeful. Who was this ‘us’? ‘Us’ used to be me and Nina. ‘Why don’t you see if he can babysit next weekend? A bunch of Jed’s friends are going to Oxford Art Factory for this gig on Saturday. I think you’d be
into it. Something about a contortionist who’s also a rapper?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s probably not my thing, but . . . it should be fun. You should come. We never go to stuff like that.’

  Yeah. We never go to stuff like that because it’s nonsense hipster bullshit.

  ‘Right. Yeah. Maybe.’

  ‘Come on, George, you need a night out. Let’s do it!’

  I stared at the back of Nina’s head as she tetrised the contents of the fridge. Did she really think I would be able to go out? That Jase would be willing and able to look after – not babysit, it’s not babysitting when it’s your own kid – Pip? It wasn’t possible. And besides all that, I didn’t need a night out, I needed a best friend.

  *

  It was the nights that were really lonely. After I’d finally settled Pip (much patting, rocking and shushing ensued; Tizzie would be appalled), and cleaned the kitchen and vegetable-smeared highchair and soaked her dirty clothes and ironed my dress for the morning, I sat down with a glass of wine and called Ellie. I needed an adult to talk to; someone who understood that I’d just put in a 21-hour shift and needed to decompress.

  But tonight, Ellie was the one who needed to decompress.

  ‘Something happened,’ she said as soon as I said hello.

  Immediately, and for no good reason, my mind raced right to ‘affair’. Simon’s having an affair?

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Lucas.’

  ‘Oh my god, is he OK?’ Lucas was the only kid I had ever really connected with; he was the only person I knew who considered it socially acceptable to eat Dunkaroos while sitting in the aisle of a grocery store, and you have to hold on to people like that.

  ‘No.’ Ellie said the word with such finality that I honestly believed Lucas had been diagnosed with some horrible disease.

  ‘Ellie! What happened?’

  ‘He’s . . .’ I could hear her crying now, and tears sprang to my eyes as well. From nowhere, little white dots of milk formed on my chest – now I cried from my boobs, too, apparently.

  ‘He’s what, love? What happened?’

  I heard a few more sobs as Ellie tried to get herself together. ‘He’s . . . developmentally delayed.’ More tears.