by Anna Maxted
For a long time afterwards, Cassie and I would hear our mother cackling aloud in the course of her day, for no apparent reason.
I did not want to be considered in the same league as Cousin Bernie, who now resided, alone and unfêted, in Dollis Hill. I didn’t want to make an exhibition of myself. Trouble was, while I had truly intended to keep my devastation to myself, the consequence of doing so was that people like Tabitha assumed I was fine, and that the sight of children, babies, mothers, nappies, dummies, bottles, prams didn’t make me want to cut my wrists.
I apologised to Tabitha. I forced myself to walk into Baby Gap, and buy a pair of faux suede fur-lined booties with little paw pads sewn on the soles, which I presented to her in person. Other people had it far worse than me, I told myself. I tried to imagine it worse – miscarrying at eight months, when the baby was all but cooked – and I tried to imagine it better – miscarrying before you even realised you were pregnant. Trouble was, I couldn’t imagine worse than this, and it felt like an insult to anyone in this situation to use the word ‘better’.
Some women went through this three times, or more. I should get a grip. The only problem was, I wasn’t sure how. The world was lousy with babies. I couldn’t step out of the house without spotting a pushchair parked under a porch. Even inside the house, I could hear baby Celestia grizzling through the wall – ‘Mmmm-eh, mmm-eh’. They were everywhere! Everywhere except . . .
‘Ladz Mag.’ Toby smiled at his assembled staff, perched on various hard surfaces around his office, and reclined on his sofa. He sniffed, and a faint crease appeared on his tanned forehead. He sniffed again, and leaned forward.
‘Ah, Ladz Mag. It has been my pleasure, gentlemen – and ladies! – and I love you and leave you with regret. I know my sudden departure will come as a shock, so I’m glad to say that I personally – not the company – will be shelling out for a drop of booze to dull your pain. I trust you’re all free tonight, and please invite your other halves! Ladz Mag will always remain dear to my heart, and in my new capacity as editor-in-chief of Elle Decoration, please believe me when I say that I will think of you often. Now.’ Toby paused, and we held our breath. ‘All that remains is for me to announce the identity of my successor.’
I glanced at Fletch, but he looked as stunned as the rest of the staff. Toby whipped his Nokia out of the specially commissioned pocket in his Ozwald Boateng suit, and dialled. ‘Kevin? Your subjects await!’
The office door flew open – it was a bit David Blaine – and in jumped a middle-aged man with spiky gelled hair and sunglasses on a cord round his neck. His trousers were three-quarter length, and his calves were very hairy.
‘Kevin Docherty, I am sure, needs no introduction,’ cried Toby. ‘He is a lion of journalism, and you will all be familiar with the sterling work he did on Weekly Chatter, in particular, the Win A Child competition. Now, I have, ah, a little tête-à-tête scheduled with the legal department, so I’ll see you at six in the Cock and Bull, but meanwhile, I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of Kevin, who is going to explain his ground-breaking vision for Ladz Mag – and its grand relaunch.’
Toby slipped from the room.
We all watched in silence as Kevin sauntered in, and flung himself at the sofa. He rested his camel-hoof trainers on the desk (an impressive manoeuvre as it was two foot higher than the sofa). He picked up the latest issue of Ladz Mag, flicked through it with a dead look on his face, then held it to his nose. ‘This magazine stinks – of old fish.’ He tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced off the wall, and glanced off the back of his head. No one laughed.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is a bunch of shite, yeah? It’s bloody depressing. Ya gotta give the reader something to aim for. Facts they can use in the pub. How tall is a fucking giraffe? Social Ammunition! I’m talking aspirational.’
We’d heard this line often enough from Toby, but the magazine remained full of war wounds. Maybe Kevin would take us upmarket, and I’d get to write a spa column. I beamed at Kevin and nodded vigorously. Kevin’s gaze flicked over me without interest.
‘It’s Ladz Mag’s job to sell blokes everything they already know they want, yeah? Like “I want to be Wayne Rooney and have a Rolex and everything except sex with old ladies”, or “I want to shag loads of women, not old ones”, or “I want a woman – how much does she cost?” or “I want to be a woman, feel my own tits”! Got it?’
Everyone nodded, slowly.
‘And here’s a thing. Birds’ magazines.’
Kevin fell silent in contemplation. I wasn’t sure of what. Budgerigar Monthly?
‘Vogue, Cosmo, Radio Times. They’ve got real people in them! Not footballers like Wayne Fucking Rooney. Real people! Like, we gotta do that! Blokes will love it! So, my idea is, ordinary blokes doing what you really want to do – “I’m on a jet boat with my niece!” Hang on. Not my niece. Shit. Why do I have to explain fucking everything! Think about it: I’m young, I’ve got money, I’m breaking the law. There is nothing more aspirational than breaking the law! Not sex laws! But screwing . . . hairdressers. It’s every young man’s dream. You!’ Kevin snapped his fingers at Ted, the chief sub. ‘Find me a bloke shagging hairdressers!’
Ted: ‘But I—’
Kevin: ‘Now!’
Ted sighed and left the room.
Kevin cleared his throat. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. Gays. Not you lot. The reader. They’re not gay, but they don’t want to rule it out. Don’t rule out a story because you think it’s gay. I’m listening. We’ll start with a yoga page and see how it tests.’
‘I could do that!’ I said.
Kevin frowned. ‘You’d have to strip to a thong and titty tassles.’
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘I thought it was for gay men?’
Kevin shook his head. ‘Forget it. We’ll get a professional model. We’ll stick some bird in a thong, have her doing the lotus twist, with some serious copy next to her. Blokes can learn how to do the move, the bird just happens to be in a thong.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Isn’t that—’
But Kevin was onto his next point. ‘Going out,’ he said. ‘It’s the new staying in. We’re gonna have a regular slot on pubs, right. But one fucking word about how beer tastes, you’re fired. Who cares? When I walk into that pub am I going to get my cock sucked? Is it a gay pub? Is it a carvery? What are the chances of me getting laid?’
‘I see,’ said Fletch, making me jump. ‘So when you say “aspirational”, what you in fact mean is—’
Kevin grinned and nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said proudly. ‘The tit count’s gone nuclear!’
‘Get off of me, get off of me, I don’t want to go home, I want to play!’
‘Is this man bothering you, miss?’
Tim let go of my arms as if I were on fire, and turned his back, his hands raised in a parody of surrender.
I tried to focus on Tim, to see if he was bothering me. There appeared to be two of him.
‘Osifer . . . Osifer,’ I took a deep breath and attempted to say what I meant. ‘Mr Policeman. This man –’ I waved towards Tim – ‘this man has committed a bad offence.’
The police officer glanced at his colleague, who was sitting in the van in a stab vest, yawning. ‘And what might that be?’ he said. Was it me or was his voice a touch less friendly?
Both Tims rolled their eyes and shoved their hands in their pockets.
‘He . . . he’s got two heads!’ I pointed a finger, and begged the police officer, ‘Look!’ But as I did so, I felt an icy clutch at my heart: the officer also had two heads. Oh my God. I was the fat girl in the zombie movie who dies horribly.
I screamed loudly and tried to run, but stumbled against the second Tim, and fell into his coat. The second Tim cupped a hand around the back of my head, so my face stayed pressed into the material.
‘Ib suffogatig!’ I shouted, but I don’t think he heard.
‘Good luck, mate,’ I heard the police officer say, and they roared off.
It wasn’t.
Toby’s leaving drinks hadn’t begun well. Everyone was in shock. Poor Fletch, he would have made a great editor. Instead, we had this moron, Kevin. I didn’t like him. But, perversely, I wanted him to like me. Maybe this had something to do with not wanting to be fired. I’d rung Tim, told him the news, and asked him to meet me at the pub. And he’d refused! He’d said ‘What about Friday Night? Your mother’s expecting us.’ Get him! He’s not even Jewish! I said he could go; I didn’t fancy food poisoning this week. I’d be in the pub, and if he wanted, he could join me later. And he went silent. ‘What?’ I said.
‘You always go to Friday Night,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ I said, and put the phone down.
So. Toby bought me a drink. And then Fletch bought me a drink. And I bought Toby, Fletch, and myself a drink. And then, because I felt sorry for Kevin, sitting all by himself in the corner, pretending to check messages on his phone, I bought Kevin a drink. Kevin was so pleased to be bought a drink by a budgerigar – ‘This is weirdly post-feministic!’ he kept saying (he was odd) – that he bought me three drinks. And, the more drinks he bought me, the nicer he got.
‘You know,’ I said, patting his hand, ‘this new bosom – I mean, vision you’ve got for Ladz Mag . . . ?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I . . .’ I drew my eyebrows together.
‘What?’ said Kevin, leaning closer until our heads were inches apart.
‘I don’t think—’
‘Spit it out! Ha! First time I’ve said that to a bird!’
‘I don’t think there’s enough sex in it!’ I clapped my hands and shrieked with laughter – only stopping when Kevin gripped my shoulders and stared into my eyes.
‘Then,’ he said, breathing lager fumes straight up my nose, ‘you, Biscuit—’
‘Lizbet,’ I corrected.
‘You, Biscuit, like, that’s going to be your new byline, yeah? Biscuit, because, because you’re . . . sweet!’
‘Ah! That’s lovely.’
‘And men want to eat you!’
‘Oh, that’s grim!’
‘Now. You, Biscuit, have gotta promise me one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Promise first.’
‘Er . . . promise!’
Kevin held out his arms and pressed me to his chest. ‘Congratulations, Biscuit!’ he said. ‘I’m looking at Ladz Mag’s new sex columnist!’
‘What!’ I shouted, struggling out of his embrace. ‘Where is she?’
‘You, Biscuit! You are the new sex columnist!’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah! Picture byline every month. Don’t panic – we can work bloody miracles with an airbrush! We’ll have you as a schoolgirl. You as a dominatrix. You as a porn teacher—’
‘A porn teacher?’
‘Yeah, like in a porno? The teacher’s all buttoned up, raspberries straining at her white shirt, and square-framed glasses, and hair in a bun, and tight skirt, all strict-looking—’
‘You mean like a . . . porn librarian?’
‘Yeah! Exactly! And then she—’
‘But, wow. I mean, that’s great. But you don’t even know if I can write!’
‘Write?’ said Kevin, wrinkling his nose. He burst out laughing. ‘Biscuit,’ he said, wiping his eyes, ‘I love it! Buy that girl a pint!’
I grinned into my Guinness. I don’t even like Guinness.
‘So, when do I write my first column?’ I said, dipping my finger into the froth.
‘Like, tomorrow,’ said Kevin.
We hugged again. I think it was at this point that Tim arrived, tapped me on the shoulder, and suggested we leave. I didn’t want to go, but he insisted. Hence our little struggle outside the pub, and the officer’s intervention.
I was subdued in the taxi home. So was Tim. So what? I was the new sex columnist for Ladz Mag.
‘Dinner was fun,’ he said. ‘Cassie was there.’
‘Right.’
‘We missed you.’
‘That’s nice.’
Tim sighed, and took my hand. I sighed, and squeezed it.
‘This probably isn’t the right time,’ he murmured, ‘seeing as you are exceptionally drunk. But I think we should try for another baby.’
Chapter 16
A big personality is like an engagement ring. It tends to be an honour bestowed on you by a third party. The world’s consensus is, I have a small personality. I realised this at an early age, and nothing has occurred since to change my mind.
Not so long ago, I was sitting alone in the packed weekend café in Kingswood, and a woman asked if she could share my table. She bit into the biggest bean burrito you ever saw; she devoured it like a wolf. There was juice dribbling down her chin, mushrooms squishing out at the sides, strands of gooey cheese slipping down the inside of her shirt sleeves. Hello? I thought. Am I invisible? I knew that if I’d had more presence – like, say, Cassie – she’d have used a knife and fork.
Cassie said I didn’t help myself. She said if ever I got a compliment I’d dodge it like anyone else might dodge a bullet. She also had words about my ‘refined sugar addiction’. I liked my refined sugar addiction. It made me a nicer person. Hadn’t she heard of self-medicating? What she was hinting at was that I’d let myself go. As if I didn’t know that! Truth is, if you want to keep a big house in London, and you don’t earn what she earns, something has to go. And I really liked my house.
I wasn’t quite resigned to my fate. I’d read an interview where a Sienna or a Keira was asked to name her favourite designer, and I’d imagine the lifestyle where you were so inundated with designer goods that you might have a favourite. The other killer: favourite shop in New York. My great shame was that I was thirty-two and never been to the USA (a social no-no on a par with not knowing how to swim). Also, the skin on my heels was so dry it flaked – if I touched it, it made me shiver. And my trainers were so old that Cassie said they were almost vintage. All these things bothered me, but not that much because I never did anything about them.
George once said I had ‘low self-esteem’ – a lesson to all women never to let a man near an edition of Cosmo. I disagreed, but didn’t want to offend him. I didn’t have ‘low self-esteem’, I had ‘high apathy’. I went along with other people’s preferences only because I didn’t care enough to contradict them. Now that I did, it was like I’d smashed the glass to my real personality (only to be used in case of emergency). The core Lizbet was harder, focused and determined. I decided that people could bend to my wishes, for a change. I’d help them adjust, by adjusting myself.
I didn’t throw out any of the drugs in my cupboards: four tubes of Smarties, two Flakes, two Lindt golden bunnies, a pack of Buttons, and a four-hundred-gram box of Belgian chocolates. Most of it had been bought for me by others happy to feed my habit. It could all stay there, reminding me of what I wasn’t. Temptation didn’t figure. It wasn’t the taste of chocolate I craved, as Cassie was so fond of saying, it was the chemicals. I was no longer a woman who gorged on saturated fat every day. I was a woman who, if she were having her last meal on death row, would choose a salad, no dressing.
The editor could stuff his airbrush. They’d have to pad me out by the time I’d finished. (I’d quit bread and potatoes too.) Our flirtatious encounter at Toby’s leaving do had made me despise Kevin more. I resented him for making me look cheap and foolish in front of Fletch, and the rest of the staff. I hardly ever drink! (I said this to Tim when we realised the parlous state of our bank account. ‘It’s not like we’ve frittered away the money!’ I said. ‘I hardly ever drink! I’m not a cokehead! You don’t gamble, we don’t own a fleet of Bentleys!’ Tim nodded sadly. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ve fucking wasted it.’) Kevin was all out for himself, and I knew that he’d only made me the Ladz Mag sex columnist because I was free.
I was suddenly hyper aware of how other people saw me and I didn’t like it
. Aged ten, I was always picked second to last for rounders – only one in front of Veronica who had an NHS plastic foot. I still felt out of it. (‘Tim,’ I said once, after friends cried off a dinner arrangement, ‘are we people other people cancel?’) If Cassie came round, she and Tim would always end up quoting lines from films at each other. Stuff like ‘I am not an animal!’ and ‘You can be my wingman!’ I’d smile stiffly, wishing I could join in. I was the dullard who failed her movie education because she was too busy wasting time on her chemistry homework to watch TV. Chemistry! Who needs that in the real world?
Before, I could hardly see a fault in Tim. Now, everything he did annoyed me. He’d sweep the kitchen floor, herd all the dust, crumbs, and general yuck into a neat pile by the bin – and then leave it. Why not go that extra yard with the dustpan and brush? That wasn’t tidying! The mess was still there, it was just concentrated in one area! Another thing: ‘Lizbet? Have you seen my keys? Lizbet? Have you seen my phone? Lizbet? Have you seen my jacket?’ Yes, yes, and yes, right there in front of you, why don’t you look? I wasn’t his girlfriend – I was his Seeing Eye Dog. I felt my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.
However. We both wanted the same thing – sex – albeit for different reasons. He wanted a baby (like our goldfish had died and we should get a new one). I wanted material for my magazine column.
I had been introduced to Ladz Mag’s readers with a photo of me chewing suggestively on a fat ink pen, under the heading ‘Meet our new Saucy Scribe!’ The make-up artist had painted lips on me that took up half my face, and the wardrobe guy had forced me into a black rubber corset. My first column was a one thousand-word tease about how men didn’t want to have sex enough (or was it just me?). The harassment – sorry, feedback – from readers offering their services pleased Kevin, who decided to enlarge my picture byline for the following month, and ‘style’ me himself. (‘I’m thinking red and black suspenders . . . peephole bra . . . It’ll be pure class!’) He also urged me to go forth and have sex adventures.