by Lauren Sams
It was getting hot. I was getting hot. Sweat began to dampen my shirt.
‘Are you OK?’ Arianna’s voice had become distant. I was in the clouds of my own thoughts, far away from her.
‘Yes, yes.’
I looked down at my notes. IT’S NOT WORTH IT. I let out a stifled laugh. The room was oppressively hot now; it was like Bangkok in here. My head started to pound.
‘Could you turn the heating down, please?’ I asked.
Arianna looked confused. ‘It’s not on. It’s quite cool in here, actually, the air-con’s on.’
That couldn’t be true. It was tropical. Balmy. I peeled my jumper off, careful of my broken arm, feeling sweat on my face as I lifted the jumper over my head. I stood up and started pacing the room, as if this would cool me down somehow. There were photos everywhere, in sleek wooden frames – Chris and Arianna on their wedding day, Chris and Arianna with their famous friends, Chris and Arianna with Atticus, Atticus doing one of those weird professional baby shoots where the photographer had somehow manipulated his limbs to make it look like he was lying like a cherub, hands folded under his chin. Even in my somewhat manic state, I could tell you: no baby has ever laid in that pose naturally.
And then I realised with alarming clarity, like flipping a switch in the dark: the candles. There weren’t any candles anywhere.
She’s selling candles, I’m here to talk about the candles. So where are the bloody candles?
I whirled back into the room, suddenly hyper-aware.
‘Arianna – can I see some of the candles? Which is your favourite?’
‘Ah, well, my favourite is probably the rosemary and tuberose. It’s quite, um, masculine in a way, so it’s very different.’ She was looking beyond me as she spoke. LIAR!
‘Uh-huh. And where do you keep yours? I can’t see any.’ If I had been pulled up and away before, now I was too present, the room shimmering with colour and movement, Arianna’s face twitchy, nervous. The heat continued to rise and I pulled at my shirt, now sticky with sweat.
‘Yes. Well. Mainly I keep them in our bedroom.’
I nodded.
‘Well, it’s best to keep them away from children, you know? Some scented candles can be, er, harmful.’ Arianna let out a little laugh.
‘Are yours?’
‘No! No, definitely not. But, um . . . Well, they can be a fire hazard.’
I felt like a crack detective spotting a major clue. Arianna clocked my raised eyebrows and realised she was heading down a rabbit warren of missteps.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked again. ‘You look really pale. Are you alright?’ Arianna stared at me, clearly trying to change the subject. As if.
‘I’m fine. Never been better.’
She didn’t even like her own candles. Her candles were crap, I knew it. She was cashing in on her fame with candles she didn’t even want in her own house.
In my dazed yet manic headspace, I kept thinking, I’m going to win a Walkley for this. Crack reporter breaks open the case of the missing candles. The Candle Scandal, that’s what they’ll call it. I could see the headlines now.
‘Well, I’d better get back to Atticus.’ She stood, pushing the non-existent creases from her white jeans. Arianna turned towards the kitchen, with its futuristic fridge and polished concrete floor and perfect-looking fruit. I thought of the banana that was slowly rotting in my own fruit bowl at home, because it seemed like too much of a hassle to bin it. I couldn’t even do that right.
I couldn’t do my job.
I didn’t do the right thing by Neil.
I wasn’t a good mum.
I had ruined everything. And I couldn’t see a way out.
The room spun. Suddenly I felt a surge of rage.
‘You don’t even like candles, do you?’
She kept walking, like she hadn’t heard. Gotcha. What a fraud.
‘Arianna?’ I had a vague notion that my voice was getting louder – or maybe I had just, in this very second, developed supersonic hearing. The world was buzzing.
She kept walking.
‘Hey! Turn around.’ I was Jana Wendt, I was Leigh Sales, I was Barbara Walters. I was not letting her go. I demanded answers.
I was watching myself now, kind of awestruck that I’d had the courage to yell at this woman. And then I realised: shit, I yelled at this woman. That’s not good. But also: I was reporting from the front lines now. I had to get the answers. I owed it to the people.
She turned, though, looking both sheepish and annoyed.
‘Look, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I did this interview as a favour to Meredith. You’re starting to freak me out a bit.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, Arianna, just tell me the truth. Where are the candles? Do you even like candles? I don’t think you do. Here’s what I think happened,’ I began, as if I were about to claim that Arianna had murdered her firstborn and buried the evidence. ‘I think you got lucky. Marrying Chris, all this landing in your lap.’ I gestured around the room. ‘And then you got bored. Real bored. So you and your publicist thought, “Why not sell some candles?” Yeah, that’ll be fun. No questions asked, right? Well I’m onto you, Foster. The jig is up. You don’t even like candles, do you?’
She stared at me as if I had . . . well, as if I had just accused her of the great crime of not liking candles.
‘I think you’d better sit down. You look . . . you don’t look good.’
I huffed. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve never been better. I’m just happy I’ve finally gotten the truth out of you, that’s all.’
‘What are you talking about? Really, I think you should sit down. You look a bit faint. Do you need some water?
I felt crazed. Really, I could feel it. It was like I’d poured caffeine directly into my veins, and it was pumping through my body like blood. Maybe this is what it’s like to be on ice, I thought. I mean, not exactly a barrel of giggles, but not altogether terrible.
I refused to sit. Instead, I paced the room, peppering Arianna with questions about the sodding candles until she asked me to be quiet while she called Meredith.
‘Meredith?’ I asked, panicking. Oh shit. ‘No! No, you don’t need to call Meredith. Really.’
Arianna stared at me, phone in hand. ‘I think it’s probably best if I do,’ she said, adding, under her breath, ‘Meredith has sent a fucking loon to my house, so Meredith can come and pick her up.’
Suddenly I got a glimpse of what Arianna could see. I was, indeed, behaving like a lunatic. What was happening? How did I get here?
All of a sudden, I became aware of someone emitting a low, long moan. Everything shook. I realised I was the one groaning. Oh god.
Robyn, holding Atticus, rushed in, a panicked look across her face. She went to Arianna’s side.
I felt my head get tighter and tighter. The world was getting too bright. I had to close my eyes. I had to get out of here. Why was it so hard to breathe? Had it always been this hard? How had I got through my entire life if it was this hard to breathe?
As Arianna, now holding the baby, backed away from me, Robyn drew closer. I think she was actually moving quite slowly, edging over to me bit by bit, the way one might cautiously approach an unknown animal, or the way I often tiptoed over to Pip’s cot. But the way I saw it at that moment, she was hurtling towards me, ready to knock me down.
I ran.
*
I woke up, freezing. When I opened my eyes, the light was blinding. I closed them again immediately. Where was I?
My arm felt heavy on my stomach. That’s right, I thought, suddenly more aware. I have a broken arm. I opened one eye, and then the other, slowly. I sat up and saw a curtain on one side of me.
‘Hello,’ said a familiar voice.
I turned slowly. ‘Hi,’ I said, seeing Neil. Neil. Neil is here. Neil hates me. Neil is leaving. ‘What happened?’
He smiled. ‘You’re OK. They think you might have had a panic attack.’
‘What?’
He nodded. ‘It’s OK. You’re going to be fine. But uh, I’m not sure you’ll be on Arianna Foster’s Christmas card list.’
Oh god. Arianna. It was all coming back to me. The candles. The accusations. Arianna’s self-righteousness. Atticus and his seaweed snacks. What had I done?
‘Oh. Oh god. I think I yelled at Arianna.’
‘Oh yeah, you definitely did. She called Meredith after she called the ambulance. She said you went nuts.’
‘I did. Oh God. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about any of it. You’re going to be fine.’
‘Where’s Pip?’ I asked as he squeezed my hand.
‘She’s with your mum. She’s absolutely fine. Your mum picked her up from daycare yesterday.’
I nodded, trying to fit all the pieces together. ‘Yesterday?’
He nodded. ‘You’ve been asleep for a while. They gave you a sedative.’
‘Oh,’ I said. All I remembered was running away from Robyn, Atticus’s nanny. I couldn’t remember why, just the general feeling that I had to run, to escape.
‘How did you –?’ I asked, not quite able to finish the sentence.
‘Meredith called me. After Arianna called her. Asked if I knew any of your family.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You were right, she did know about us.’
I nodded, exhaustion weighing on my eyelids.
I felt Neil kiss my hand just before I fell asleep again.
*
When I woke up the next time, Neil declared the hospital’s food inedible and went out to get me a cheeseburger and fries. I could have wept, I was so grateful. I had just begun to bite into the burger when the doctor came in, his face kind and concerned.
‘Ms Henderson,’ he said. ‘Feeling better?’
I nodded.
‘We believe you had a panic attack,’ he said, looking at his clipboard. ‘Do you have a history of panic disorders or anxiety?’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Have you been under any stress lately?’
I laughed softly. ‘Uh . . . yes.’
He glanced at me, his eyebrows rising. ‘Work?’
I nodded. ‘And baby. I have a baby.’
‘Do you work full-time?’
I nodded.
‘And you’re a single mother?’
I nodded again.
He made a low whistling sound. ‘Well, that’s very stressful, I’d say. How’d you hurt your arm?’
‘Shower. I slipped.’
‘How much time did you take off work?’
‘Um . . . like six hours?’ I guessed.
His eyes bulged. ‘Did you take any medication?’
‘Panadol.’
‘OK. And how about alcohol? Do you drink?’
I stared at him and gave a curt nod, one that I hoped would be interpreted as, ‘Let’s not get too specific about this.’
‘Caffeine?’
More nodding.
‘And how’s your sleep? Are you sleeping well?’
I laughed again. ‘Like I said . . . I have an eleven-month-old.’
‘I see,’ he said, nodding and making notes. ‘Well, Ms Henderson, you have all the makings of a panic attack there. I’m surprised it took this long, to be honest.’
I sank into the pillow.
‘You need rest. You need a lot of rest. We’re going to run some tests overnight, to make sure you didn’t actually have a seizure. I’m fairly certain you didn’t, but we always like to make sure.’
I nodded.
‘In the meantime, I suggest you sleep.’
It was just about the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.
Chapter 22
Pip didn’t have a first birthday party.
But she did have one for her second.
There was no Pinterest board, no e-vite with a birthday gift registry, no fancy layer cake – not even lolly bags, a fact that Lucas took particular umbrage with. ‘Aunty Gawgee,’ he said, looking confused and disappointed, when I told him that Pip was two and wasn’t really at the lolly bag stage yet, ‘Pip is two . . . but I’m five. I need a lolly bag.’
Ellie made cupcakes. Matt manned the barbecue, the one cooking job he could not fuck up (what was it with men who could use a barbecue but not a stovetop? They worked exactly the same way). Jase bought Pip a bike, of course, with pink tasselled handlebars and a basket for . . . what, exactly? The newspaper? She loved it all the same. Saskia came too, a new engagement ring on her hand and a slight swell to her stomach. She was due in January. Neil brought champagne and took pleasure in getting my mum ever so slightly tipsy. After I found her swatting Simon’s arm flirtatiously as they chatted about their favourite X Factor contestants, I made Neil promise to never get her pissed again.
Pip, quite overwhelmed by all the excitement and attention, refused to blow out her candles. She sat there, frozen, as we all looked on, encouraging her. In the end we all helped and she clapped her hands in delight, then grabbed a cupcake and stuffed it into her mouth. That’s my girl.
Pip had lengthened – sometimes, I thought, before my very eyes. Her chubbiness had faded over time, like colour from jeans. Her features were more distinct now and her hair no longer stuck up like it was shocked to see me. She wasn’t a baby, she was her own little girl.
She loved colouring in and biscuits pilfered from the jar Mum always kept in her kitchen (sugar apparently being acceptable if you were under five and very cute) and, somewhat regrettably, the colour pink (rationally I knew it didn’t matter, but it still made me feel like a feminist traitor, like when I found myself humming ‘Blurred Lines’). She sang a lot, mainly to herself, but other than that, my Pip was sort of quiet.
She was scared of the dark, and it was sort of lovely that she called out for me when she was eager for a cuddle, but also a little bit frustrating because, gosh, wouldn’t a full night’s sleep be wonderful?
‘Nice column this week, George,’ said Jase. ‘The girls in the office loved it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I’d been writing my column, ‘The Juggle is Real’, for almost a year now. I’d left hospital after my panic attack expecting to be fired. Instead, Richie – who by that stage I’d honestly thought was a very well-developed figment of Meredith’s imagination – called me. While I’d been in hospital, the Media Alert story had come out. The headline, ‘Meredith Parker: All Hot Air?’, was emblazoned across a photo of Meredith at an advertiser presentation, brandishing a microphone and stomping her foot to emphasise a point. She looked crazed, delirious, drunk on her own power. The article had detailed her empty buzzwords, her flimsy plans for the magazine, her abrupt and dismissive manner with me. It had also alluded, not so subtly, to her drinking.
I was painted as quiet and slightly bamboozled, which at the time was probably quite accurate.
‘Meredith’s going, Georgina,’ said Richie.
‘Oh. Where to?’ I couldn’t imagine Meredith anywhere else but in her office, sugar-free Red Bull in one hand and her phone in the other, yelling at Bea to warm up her veggie patty for lunch.
‘We’re not sure. Meredith is . . . exploring other options,’ he said carefully. ‘What we’re wondering is . . . would you like to take her job? Would you like to be the publisher? We’ve been really impressed with the editorial direction of The Weekend. We think you’d be a perfect fit.’
‘Ah . . . wow. No,’ I said, surprising myself. I didn’t even have to think about it. No. I didn’t want the job. There was no part of me that wanted it. There was no part of me that would even consider it.
‘Really?’ asked Richie, sounding quite surprised himself.
‘Yeah. Really. But I have an idea –’
And so The Juggle is Real was born. It’s about working parents, and it’s in the paper every single Saturday. Readers – women, usually – write in and tell me about bosses who won’t let them take an hour off to go to their kid’s Christmas concert, or co-workers who resent the fact that they
leave the office at 5.30 on the dot. They tell me about the guilt they feel when they drop their kids off and the shame of missing something important, like a school play, when they travel for work. They tell me that they love their job and they love their kids and they’re just not sure how to get these two things to co-exist. I tell them, essentially, that it’s OK: nobody does. It’s all a work in progress. The juggle is real for all of us.
Neil moved in last month, and yes, he brought his Aeropress with him. Pip immediately picked it up, pulled the vacuum out and started using it as a trumpet. I watched the whole scene as if in slow motion, sure Neil would lose his shit. But he didn’t. He got down on the floor with her, clapped along as she trumpeted away, and said to me, ‘We’ll get another one. That’s the amazing thing about Aeropresses, they’re so inexpensive. Also –’
Nina and Matt found a house swap in Provence, of which I am jealous in the extreme. Nina keeps sending me WhatsApp messages with pictures of vines and wine and plump red tomatoes from farmer’s markets and little dogs with rather fetching kerchiefs around their necks. I miss her. I miss our shorthand language and the way I don’t have to explain why I’m pissed about something – I just tell her the thing and she gets it. Neil’s not quite at that speed yet. Last week I told him about a woman who cut in front of me in the line at Woolies and he cocked his head, unsure how to respond. Nina would have been instantly outraged on my behalf.
Neil’s writing a book (which he won’t let me see yet so obviously it must be a love story about the two of us), and working front of house at a restaurant. Penance, he says, for all the years he spent as a critic.
Lucas starts school this year and Ellie, while still quite concerned about the fact that he hasn’t finished Proust yet (much less started, if we’re perfectly honest), is looking forward to the new ways she’ll be able to be Organised Mum. Shifts at the school canteen, nutritionally balanced bento box lunches for Lucas, making costumes for the school play, organising the Halloween disco, buying every teacher a Christmas present before 1 December every single year. Just thinking of those jobs brings me out in a shivering cold sweat, like an allergy, but Ellie will be so good at all of it, I just know. I’ve already promised to barely tease her about it.