by Lauren Sams
I sat down and leaned back in my chair. Grabbing my phone, I typed a text to Jase. Going to be a little late, is that OK? A few minutes later, I saw his reply. Of course, no probs. Going to park. Are pram straps compulsory? My heart jumped as I pictured the two of them: Pip hurtling down the street, entirely untethered, grinning from ear to ear as Jase pushed her racing pram down an incline, trying to see if they could set a new world record. Just kidding, G. Figured it out. Siri helped. Jx
I breathed a sigh of relief and opened my computer inbox. As always, there were around thirty emails waiting for me, all from Meredith and all sent overnight. They weren’t really emails, in that they weren’t really correspondence – more like stream-of-consciousness missives. Each one contradicted the one before it. Sometimes I just deleted them en masse – by the time daylight rolled around, Meredith had typically forgotten what she’d written – but today I decided to have a look.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: Celeste
Sent: 11.56 pm
George, back at square one with Celeste. Her aura is orange now! Orange = jealous and prone to irrational outbursts. We don’t need that on the team. Let’s sort this out tomorrow.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: Melbourne
Sent: 12.00 am
George, am going to Melbourne next week to do the first upfronts. Massive accounts, must chase chase chase. As face of brand, I’ll need you there. Everyone will love you. Let’s practise your presentation this week. Have five dot points for me in the morning, OK, just topline stuff? George, this is a great chance to get some more $$$. And I’ll book Flower Drum! We’ll make a weekend of it.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: Celeste
Sent: 12.01 am
George, have we had your aura read yet?
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
CC: Clementine Hall
Subject: Aura Reading
Sent: 12.11 am
George, meet Clementine. She’s coming in to read your aura tomorrow. Wear something neutral.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: FWD: Celeste
Sent: 12.13 am
Lee’s aura was yellow. Distrustful. Scatterbrained. Highly emotional.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: Melbourne
Sent: 12.59 am
Actually, have you been to Attica? Forget Flower Drum. We’ll go to Attica.
From: Meredith Parker
To: Georgie Henderson
Subject: FWD: Your reservation at Attica
Sent: 1.07 am
It’s done!
From: Clementine Hall
To: Meredith Parker, Georgie Henderson
Subject: Aura Reading
Sent: 6.17 am
Meredith, I’m on a power meditation retreat right now. Should not even be sending this email! Phones are totally banned. (But I am shagging the meditation director so fine for me. I digress.) Anyway, cannot do aura reading tomorrow. Am sensing some virtual negativity from this man George though. Thx.
First things first: I had to email Meredith and lie. I’d tell her that yes, I’d had my aura read and (a quick google later) it was vibrant red, the colour of diligence and authority. Easy.
But how to get out of Melbourne? It was ridiculous that I had to go. The ‘upfronts’, as Meredith called them, were merely the same old presentations we’d always given to advertisers, gussied up with an American word and some expensive pens we handed out at the end (it’s difficult to overstate the power of free stationery, even among men who routinely bring home bonuses worth more than the house I live in). But gussied or not, I didn’t really need to be there; Meredith could do it all. She loved the sell, the chase, the game of it all. And she was good at it. She boozed and schmoozed with the best. Me? I could barely keep a straight face as they all barrelled on about the need to ‘actualise e-commerce as a viable brand focus’ and ‘target diversified revenue streams’ and ‘optimise the brand’s hyper-scale agile outside-the-box thinking’.
Besides all that, though, there was no way I could go. Jase could look after Pip while I was at work, but he wasn’t ready to take her for a whole weekend. He couldn’t feed her, put her to sleep, put her to sleep again when she inevitably woke . . . I just couldn’t do it. Nina was out of the question, obviously, and Ellie had her own life. And Mum . . . God, Pip would probably be making sugar-free cookies and doing the ironing by Sunday afternoon if I left her with Mum.
I couldn’t do it.
But – how would I tell Meredith? When Lee had talked to me about coming back, it was all ‘We’ll fit in around you,’ and ‘We know Pip comes first.’ But three weeks ago, when I’d asked to leave at 4 to take Pip to the doctor, Meredith asked me why the nanny couldn’t take her. I explained that I didn’t have a nanny.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well. If you need any recommendations –’ She looked back down at her desk, where she’d been reading a copy of a rival supplement, Weekend Style. She gave the page her entire focus.
‘Um, right. I’ll let you know, thanks. But, um . . . about the doctor’s appointment? That’s fine, right?’
She didn’t look up. ‘Fine.’
Which really meant: not fine. So now I’d become a champion sneak. There was no hiding my late mornings, but I had persuaded Bea to organise meetings for Meredith if I needed to leave early in the afternoon. I couldn’t sneak out of Melbourne, though. What was I going to do, dash to the airport while Meredith was window shopping at Emporium?
The rest of the day passed like most others – putting out small fires of Meredith’s making, a run downstairs at lunch to grab a chicken salad (Meredith didn’t like people eating carbs at their desks) and a cheeky trip to the salon round the corner for a quick eyebrow wax. ‘Use a lot of concealer,’ I warned. I didn’t want Meredith – or Neil, for that matter – knowing.
I sought out Bea to ask her if Meredith had actually booked Melbourne yet. If she had, the chances of me getting out of it were a lot slimmer. I braced myself.
‘Not yet,’ she said, smiling slyly. ‘I can hold her off if you need.’ I loved the team here; we all knew Meredith was a little unhinged, and we all did our part to manage that, in small and subtle ways. Bea, like most assistants, did the majority of the heavy lifting. I once saw her hide all the scissors in the office after Meredith went nuts for a model with a pixie cut on a cover mock. We were all convinced she’d try to chop her hair off – or worse, someone else’s.
‘That would be great. Is she OK?’
Bea’s eyes darted. ‘In what way?’
‘She said she was late today because she wasn’t feeling well?’
‘Oh,’ said Bea, smiling. ‘Yeah, she’s fine. She just had an allergic reaction.’
‘Oh really? To what?’ I couldn’t help myself. Part of me wanted to know what Meredith’s kryptonite was.
Bea shrugged. ‘A vitamin. She takes these really high-potency ones – I think maybe she gets them online, I don’t think they’re approved here – and sometimes she has a bad reaction.’
‘Define “bad reaction”.’
‘She’s fine, really. She went to the hospital and got a shot. She’s OK now,’ Bea said, smiling at me reassuringly. ‘You know Meredith; she’d never miss a day of work.’
I nodded. Right. Of course not.
I closed the door to my office and set about applying some extra makeup. I’d convinced poor, perennially besieged Celeste to loan me some from the beauty cupboard, telling her I had an important meeting. Which was sort of true. A date was a meeting. Right? And I was going on a date. Sort of. I think.
I was just about to google ‘contouring for dummies’ when Jase called.
‘George . . . did Pip eat anything purple this morning?’
‘What?’ I said, already on my feet. Oh my god. What was wrong with Pip?
‘It’s just . . . hold on,’ he said, and I heard a faint shh, shh on the other end. ‘She just threw up.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. We were at the park and everything was fine. We came home and I gave her the purée. That was about half an hour ago. I –’
‘I’m on my way.’
*
Trying to get a urine sample from a small child – still in nappies – is like trying to catch a ball bearing dropped from a fair height: a little bit hilarious and a lot impossible.
Pip, not quite standing on her own yet, thought it was pretty funny to have her daddy holding her up as her mummy held a giant salad bowl under her, waiting for the much-anticipated wee. She kept kicking her legs so she’d buckle from the knees, landing in the salad bowl. Finally, she landed in the bowl and, shocked at the cold metal, let out a little wee. Jase and I looked at each other with glee – she’d done it! As I high-fived him, Pip kicked the bowl out from under her, knocking the wee onto the bathroom floor.
I slumped back on to the tiled wall. ‘Shit,’ I muttered. Jase laughed.
‘It’s alright. Let’s just wait.’ He flashed a sympathetic smile.
We were both Pip’s parents, but this was the first time we’d really parented together. It was a relief to have someone here to help. A relief to know someone else cared this much about Pip.
The doctor had said it was most likely a UTI. I baulked at the adult-sounding illness, and barely listened as the doctor assured me it was fine. Quite common at this age. Nothing to worry about. A small chance she’ll need antibiotics.
I’d cried a little as we left the doctor’s, and Jase had put his arm around me. We must have just looked like any other family: harried, stressed mum; caring dad; baby girl dressed – inexplicably – in her pyjamas at 4 pm. Apparently Jase had ‘run out of clean clothes’ just six hours in. I didn’t have the time or energy to question it.
‘Hey, hey,’ he said, ‘what’s up? She’s going to be OK. The doctor said it was common.’
I strapped Pip into her pram and shoved the urine sample containers in the bottom, wiping away the tears. ‘I know. It’s just been . . . a big day.’
Jase rubbed my back and gave me a gentle push forward. ‘Come on. Let’s go home. Catch this wee.’ He smiled cheekily. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
I shot him a grateful smile.
‘Don’t worry, George. It’ll be fine.’
Two hours later, we finally had a wee sample and Jase ran it down to the doctor’s just before they closed. For the first time, we fed Pip dinner together, laying out towels under her high chair to protect against future vomit (which – to my relief – did not come), bathed her together and tucked her in together. Apart from the purple vomit – the result of a particularly aggressively shaded tub of blueberry purée – Pip seemed absolutely fine.
Jase told me to sit on the couch as he ordered takeaway, put a load of washing on and poured me a glass of wine. It was only as he handed me the wine that I remembered what I was meant to be doing right now. Shit. Neil.
I grabbed my phone then realised I didn’t actually have Neil’s number. I sent him an email and hoped that, like any good employee of Meredith’s, he checked his inbox at least every fifteen minutes outside of work hours.
Neil – so sorry. Pip is sick, had to
rush home. Was going to come.
I toyed with adding ‘I swear’, but it sounded a little ‘methinks she doth protest too much’, so I signed off and took a very large gulp of wine.
I fell back into the couch and didn’t even offer to help as Jase picked up the books and toys and random clothes that littered the floor.
‘Sorry,’ he said, looking up. ‘I don’t know how it got so messy. It was perfect when you left this morning!’
I smiled. ‘It’s fine. That’s what babies do.’ I was tempted to add, I’ll clean it up later, but I stopped myself. No: this time I would let Jase clean it up. I did manage to make myself useful and run for the door when the pizza delivery guy arrived, though. I’d started eating a slice before I’d even set the box down on the dinner table.
‘Hungry?’
‘Starved.’ I explained Meredith’s no-carbs-in-the-office rule.
‘Riiiight,’ said Jase, tucking into a slice. ‘She sounds like a great boss, George. A real leader.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘She’s OK. A little highly strung, but she’s good at what she does. She’s kind of the best, actually, at what she does. It’s a great opportunity – I’m learning a lot from her.’
Jase nodded dubiously. I checked my phone for the eighth or so time since I’d emailed Neil. Nothing.
‘George, put your phone away,’ Jase said, a little sternly now. ‘Every time I see you lately, you’re on that thing. You’re worse than me!’ He slid my phone to the other side of the table.
I nodded. I was always on my phone. I found myself ‘making up’ for ‘leaving the office early’ by checking my emails while I bathed Pip or fed her dinner. Part of the reason I was still breastfeeding was so I could scroll through my emails as I did so. I was aware – vaguely – that this was all a bit fucked up, but it also felt like I was smashing it. I could write my own productivity advice now.
‘I had fun today,’ said Jase. ‘Really. Pip is a funny kid.’
I tilted my head, surprised. ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. She’s not like Thomas,’ he said, referring to his nephew. ‘He’s boring. Pip’s fun. She’s got a good sense of humour.’
‘Jase, you’re not allowed to call kids boring.’
‘What?’ he asked defensively. ‘Thomas is boring. Adults are boring and we’re allowed to say so. Why not kids?’
‘Because . . . because . . . I don’t know,’ I said, picking up the last slice and tearing it in half haphazardly, handing one part to Jase.
He shook his head and patted his stomach.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Nah, gotta keep the kay gees down,’ he said.
‘No, not for the pizza,’ I said, savouring another cheesy bite. ‘Well, not just for the pizza. For everything. I’m glad you were here today.’
He put his hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Me too. Thanks for forcing the pace.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a cycling thing. What I meant was . . . thanks for making me a part of this. I didn’t know how full-on it would be for you. Pip. The whole thing. I mean, I knew, but . . . I guess I didn’t really know. But I’m glad you’re making me a part of it. It’s hard, but I like it. I really do, George. Thanks for giving me a kick up the bum.’
I smiled. ‘Any time.’
Chapter 12
‘George!’ Meredith trumpeted as she came in to my office. She liked to announce herself, like bells on a cat.
‘Hi, Meredith,’ I said, and launched into my argument before she had a chance to ask. ‘So, about Melbourne. I’m so sorry, but with Pip being sick, her doctor says it’s best for her to stay home.’
I had worked from home the day before – I couldn’t bear to put Pip in daycare when she wasn’t well, even though she seemed fine. I hadn’t been game to call Meredith, so I’d texted instead. No reply. An hour later, she’d emailed with a to-do list as long as Michael Fassbender’s penis. Working from home really did mean working from home, as far as Meredith was concerned. Still, Pip and I went to the park, and I drank my coffee free from Meredith’s harsh dairy-judging stare, and Pip slept for three hours after lunch. It was actually the best – and easiest – day I’d had in a long time, except for the fact that Meredith texted me 416 times.
Now she half rolled her heyes but held up her hands, as if in defeat. ‘Of course! I understand.’
She understood? Since when?
‘Oh. Right,’ I said. Meredith was letting me get out of this? That was . . . uncharacteristic. ‘Um, thank you. I can Skype in if yo
u like, for the meetings? And you can bring me back a doggie bag from Attica!’ I laughed, a little nervously, afraid of what Meredith might ask me to do in lieu of coming to Melbourne.
‘A doggie bag?’ Meredith squinted at me. Poor Meredith. Well, poor rich Meredith – she’d probably never had a doggie bag in her life. She’d probably never even been to a restaurant that offered them. Or had she? I still didn’t know anything about Meredith outside of work. I knew she ate her dry veggie patty for lunch and guzzled so much sugar-free Red Bull I worried she’d have a guarana-induced heart attack. I knew now that she took vitamins strong enough to give her an allergic reaction. I knew she went to the gym for exactly twenty-eight minutes every morning, because she’d told us she ‘did Kayla’. I wasn’t cool enough to know what that meant, but Bea had explained. (Bea had also confided that Kendrick Lamar was not, in fact, Khloe Kardashian’s husband and that I should stop referring to him as such.) She loved champagne. She never stopped working. She didn’t use emojis, as a rule. And in classic eating disorder mode, I knew she loved talking about eating, just not the actual putting-food-in-mouth bit. But that was all I knew. Did she have a husband? Was she even on that team? I had no idea. She didn’t tell me – or anyone, I presumed – anything about her life outside of work. Assuming she had one.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Anyway, look, if there’s anything I can do to make it easier, just let me know.’