The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  There are lots of reasons why not having children works for me. I am a writer and spend most of my time alone, as I’ve previously mentioned. I love that part of my life so much, and I know I’d have to fight for it if I had a child. Writing is my therapy, my way of connecting with the world. It fulfils me in so many ways that I have never felt like anything is missing as long as I have a thought in my head and a pen or keyboard to get it down. I believe that if I had a child and struggled to find the time to write, then I would feel like something was missing. So why would I want to do that?

  Of course I know that if I did have a child, I would experience the kind of love that would probably fill in all the gaps and solve all the worries that I have, but they wouldn’t give me the time I have to do the other things that I love in life. So really, I can gain nothing from having a child, because I would lose so many of the things that are important to me. Solitude, travel, late nights, lazy weekends, sex on the couch in the middle of the day, to name but a few.

  I read about women whose lives are caving in around them because they can’t find a man to reproduce with. And others who have re-mortgaged their houses as they try round after round of IVF. I also know mothers who are blissfully happy, but also those whose careers have suffered, along with their self-worth, and the unspoken truth is that they probably won’t get either of them back. My life is free of any of that. I am in no hurry to settle down, I do not feel empty, nothing is missing. You probably think I’m selfish. I think I’m a revelation.

  Family ask me if I worry I will feel unfulfilled in the future because I never had kids. To which I think, are there not billions of women out there who feel unfulfilled because they did have kids? Isn’t choice basically what feminism is all about? How can we look back over the past five hundred years, at how women were knocked into second place because they were the ones that had to bear the children, and not agree that it is a reasonable reaction to want to remain child free?

  As a society, we have to stop valuing women on whether they have babies or not. My decision not to have a family of my own will mean that some people will always think I’ve failed, that I am tragic in some way. But there is nothing tragic about my life, because I love everything about it, and I’m especially excited for my future.

  I look forward to your emails.

  Cam x

  Stella

  Monday morning

  ‘Stella, thank fuck. You have to unblock my computer; I need to get on the Internet,’ says Jason as he comes, frantically, into the studio. It’s nine a.m., he’s never this early unless we have a shoot.

  I knew this would happen, and I’m not doing it. He sent me an email after he left on Friday making me promise that no matter how much he begged, I must not unblock his computer until his book is finished. He sent me all of his passwords for his email and all his social accounts. ‘You are in control,’ he said, ‘You are the boss.’

  ‘No way. “Under no circumstances”, that’s what you said,’ I remind him, my head throbbing from crying myself to sleep until three a.m. Phil slept on the couch.

  ‘Well, things have changed. I need to find someone.’

  ‘Jason, you said you would do exactly this. So no, sorry. There’s no point in us making arrangements like that if you break them. You’re locked out of the Internet until you’ve written the book. What is so urgent?’ I ask, nosily.

  ‘I met a girl on Friday night. She was awesome. I took her number, and just after we said goodbye this guy on a bike smashed into me and I dropped my phone down a drain.’

  ‘Oh, that’s annoying. Did she take your number?’

  ‘Yes, we were texting.’

  ‘Great, then there is no problem. I’ll order you a new phone and she’ll no doubt text you. Also, if you saved her number it will probably be on iCloud and you’ll have it anyway. So, get back to work and be patient. No Internet, like we said,’ I say, bossily. It’s not always easy being Jason’s PA, he takes some controlling. Luckily it’s the part of my job that I enjoy the most; it’s not like I have any control over my own life.

  He is visibly calmer upon hearing that this woman’s number isn’t lost forever.

  ‘And maybe playing it a bit cool could be good?’ I continue, slightly out of turn. But I’ve seen Jason have multiple disastrous dating experiences because he tends to move way too quickly and freak people out. His old-school romantic tricks have a tendency to plummet with the kinds of women he likes. He likes to send flowers, and although the idea of that is nice, he often sends them to women at work. For some of his dates, who work in quite male office environments, this hasn’t gone well.

  One, who he apparently had a great time with, worked quite high up at Morgan Stanley. He sent her roses to work the day after their first date and she called him, livid, saying she never wanted to see him again because he’d embarrassed her so much. Jason couldn’t get what the problem was. I told him that women who work in male environments don’t like to make an issue of the fact they are female. Sending flowers was like passing her a big flashing sign that said, ‘I AM A WOMAN WITH FEELINGS, TREAT ME DIFFERENTLY’.

  He said he understood, but then sent flowers to the next woman he dated anyway. She had a similar reaction. He is who he is. There is something so endearing about how much he adores women.

  He goes into his office and throws his rucksack on the floor. I hear him growl with frustration. He’s quite cute when he’s stressed, especially when it’s over a girl. I feel so shitty today, so angry with Phil, but I can’t help but find Jason amusing. It’s so sweet how he pines for love. I long to be noticed the way he observes the women he falls for. I sometimes think I could do a naked cartwheel in front of Phil, and he’d just say something about the weather. He’s lost so much spark from when I first met him. He was so charming, so confident, so happy. The worst thing about this is that I know I’m the one who has drained it out of him, and I do nothing to make it better. I’m cordial, I’m polite, I try to keep it sexy, but I don’t connect. Not really.

  I watch Jason as he sits in his chair and runs his fingers through his hair. His wrinkles are deeper, because his face is all tense. I get up and go to the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I say gently. ‘Thanks so much for the champagne on Friday, that was really nice of you.’

  His face falls back into place, as if momentarily forgetting about this mystery woman.

  ‘Oh, you’re so welcome. Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yeah, it was nice. Good food. My friend is pregnant, so it kind of became about that.’

  ‘Really? She gave you that news on your birthday? Selfish bitch, it should have been all about you.’ He winks at me with his right eye. There are more wrinkles around it than the left, from being scrunched up looking down a lens. I’ve always thought that was really cute.

  ‘Coffee?’ I ask him.

  ‘Go on then.’

  As I wait for the kettle to boil, I text Phil.

  Last night was weird. Hope you can still make it later?

  He texts back right away, saying he’ll be there.

  Jason makes me jump, appearing behind me.

  ‘Stella, please unblock my computer. I want to find Tara.’ He really isn’t giving up on this one.

  ‘No. Sorry, Jason, it’s not happening. Take a couple of days with no devices to just get on with it. How far are you past your original deadline now? Weeks, right? If she’s that good, she’ll wait. I’ll order you a new phone, her number will be there and you can text her then, OK?’

  ‘How long will that take?’ he asks, impatiently.

  ‘I’ll get straight on it. Tomorrow, maybe the next day. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ He walks away, looking notably morose. I call after him.

  ‘So who is she then, this Tara?’ I ask, intrigued to know who has got him so besotted this time.

  ‘I met her on Friday night. We had this amazing time. Like, I always have a good time on dates, but there is always the feeling that it’s all down to me, my effort, you k
now? But it wasn’t like that with Tara. It felt so, so mutual. I took her number and then that fucking maniac smashed into me and I watched my phone disappear down the drain. I was halfway through texting her back, it’s so frustrating.’ He walks back towards me to take his coffee from my hand. ‘I never even got her surname. We actually managed to spend a whole evening together and not talk about work or the weather, we really got on. Try and find her, will you?’ he asks, pathetically.

  ‘Find her? Where?’

  ‘The Internet?’

  ‘You want me to find some girl called Tara on the Internet?’ I ask, thinking he must be joking.

  ‘No, not just some girl called Tara. The girl called Tara.’

  ‘Well, do you know where she works?’

  ‘TV.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her? Any defining details that might make her stand out on the Internet – because there are quite a lot of people on there and I could really do with some direction?’ I say, a little worried he actually thinks I can do this.

  ‘Well, I know that she is forty-two. She’s about five foot eight with long thick brown curly hair, gorgeous freckles, size ten-ish. She works in TV, has a six-year-old daughter, and lives in Walthamstow. That’s it. If you’d just let me use the Internet, I’d find her!’

  ‘No, not happening, sorry. You pay me to control you, so I am controlling you.’

  Jason puts his head back into his hands and lets out a huge exhalation.

  ‘Look, I’ll order your phone and you can call her then. OK? For now, crack on.’ I watch him walk away like a kicked dog. I almost cave, but stick to my guns. I want this book to be done, it’s boring around here with no shoots to organise. I’m spending way too much time on Facebook getting pissed off about how annoying everyone is.

  I log in. So many status updates, so much sharing. People with new jobs, people losing weight, people having babies. Some are angry at the government; others are cracking jokes. I wouldn’t know what to write, even if I did break my Facebook silence. What would I say? ‘Desperate for a kid but my boyfriend won’t sleep with me’? Or ‘My twin sister died and now I have no idea how to live my life’? or ‘When I die, there is a good chance that no one will remember I ever existed because I have never done anything that’s made any lasting impact on the world’?

  I decide it’s probably best I don’t say anything, and click on to www.HowItIs.com to see what Camilla Stacey has to say for herself today.

  Being alone doesn’t mean I am lonely.

  Sure, I think. It’s alright for some.

  A calendar reminder pops up on my screen for five p.m.

  ‘MAMMOGRAM’ it says.

  As if I would have forgotten.

  Tara

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say to Andrew as I walk into the office on Monday morning. ‘Annie was up all night with a sick bug so I had to take her to my mum’s.’

  I feel horrible. The weekend was shit. Annie was so ill. The chicken I fed her was completely rotten, I realised this morning when I smelt it properly. On the way home from Sophie’s she was crying and begging for it to stop. She puked all over the inside of the car, up the stairs and all over her bed. I watched her like a hawk until she eventually fell asleep in my bed at five a.m. Mum came and got her this morning and I came to work even though I should have just taken the day off. I felt so guilty, but I honestly couldn’t face another day feeling like the crappiest mum alive. Now I’m a walking zombie but I just need to get on with work and forget about what was possibly the shittiest weekend of all time. Apart from meeting Jason, which was so amazing, and I still can’t believe I misinterpreted it. But I clearly did. Thinking about it makes me want to projectile vomit. And then the guy on the train, urgh! I don’t really want to be at work either, but saying that, Andrew seems to have decided not to make me feel guilty about being late, which is unusual.

  ‘It happens,’ he says. ‘Nice weekend?’

  He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, a weird and zany smile on his face. If he is flirting with me, he can seriously do one.

  ‘It was OK, thanks. You?’ I reply, finding the casual chit chat with someone I usually spar with quite awkward.

  ‘Oh you know, it was quiet. I didn’t have any adventurous journeys or anything like that.’

  ‘OK, well, sometimes chilled weekends are nice,’ I say, deliberately not asking a question, hoping that our talk is over.

  I put my laptop on my desk, then take off my cardigan and put it on the back of my chair. Andrew leans forward and stares at me.

  ‘What?’ I say, bluntly. He’s really annoying me now, I’m not in the mood for his games.

  ‘No, no, nothing,’ he says, pretending to read something on his laptop. I instinctively check my seat for a whoopee cushion. There is nothing there.

  ‘Oh, you’re here,’ says Adam, walking in. He also has a weird look on his face that makes me think I should check underneath my desk for cameras.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Annie got—’

  He interrupts me. ‘I thought you might want to stay on the train all day, seeing as how much you love trains.’

  What? Weirdo. I ignore them both, then Samuel appears behind Adam. They all watch me as I log in to my computer.

  ‘What? Why are you all watching me?’ I ask, starting to get ratty. I hate the way they try to intimidate me, it’s really annoying.

  ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ says Samuel. ‘She hasn’t seen it. Oh my God, this is going to be beautiful.’

  ‘Seen what? What’s going to be beautiful?’ I ask, with a little excitement that I try to hide, as it’s obviously a big deal.

  Andrew comes over to my desk, and leans over me to get to my laptop. I pull my jumper up over my shoulder to cover my skin. He types ‘MailOnline’ into Google. I’m racking my brains as to what I’m about to see. I would never admit this out loud, but I’m wondering if one of my shows has been nominated for an award.

  The MailOnline website opens. In huge letters on the home page I see the words, ‘ALL ABOARD THE LOVE TRAIN! Tube shame as woman is caught MASTURBATING on the Victoria Line.’ And just underneath it, a video link and the static image of me with my trousers around my ankles and my hand in my crotch. They’ve pixelated my hand, but my face is as clear as anything.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, as my heart starts pounding so strongly in my chest that I have to swallow hard for fear of it coming up my throat. ‘Oh my God.’

  I just stare at it. Andrew presses play on the video but I slam my hand down on the mouse to stop it.

  ‘That’s you, having a good old wank on a train,’ clarifies Adam. ‘Even I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh my God. Annie,’ I say, pathetically. ‘My mum, my DAD.’ I drop my head into my hands.

  ‘Yup, that’s one you probably don’t want your dad to see,’ Andrew says, patting me on the shoulder like I’m a dog.

  I feel so hot, like my blood is actually boiling. The weight of people looking at me feels like a hot towel that’s been thrown over my head, and I can’t get it off. My breathing gets short; I can’t draw in the air that I need. What is happening? Bev’s hand appears in front of me, it sets a glass of water down on my desk. I try to pick it up but my fist won’t clench, it rattles out of my hand and the water spills everywhere. I feel coldness seep through my skirt, and see Bev on the floor next to me mopping it up with a tissue. I can’t hear anything. Am I underwater?

  ‘Tara Thomas, Train Wank Woman,’ says Andrew. ‘It’s got a ring to it.’

  ‘No, wait,’ says Adam, laughing. ‘Thomas the Wank Engine!’

  Their laughter is like a swarm of bees surrounding my head. How do I escape it? I have no words, no way to defend this. So I just run. I get up, grab my bag and I run for the door, down the stairs and onto the street. As the fresh air hits my face, I suck it in like it’s my first breath in years. I am bent double on the pavement, I close my eyes and there it is, the image of me on the train, my hand in my pants, masturbating. How can
I make it go away? I can’t. It will never go away. I know this world enough to know that. I know how these things spin; it’s my job to spin them. I look up and the brightness hurts my eyes, my brain is begging for darkness, desperate to shut down. My skin starts to burn, like an atomic bomb has exploded and I shouldn’t be above ground. It’s not safe for me out here, everyone is an enemy, infected with something that can kill me. I have to get home. I throw my arm into the air and hail a cab. When one pulls up, I clamber in and lie across the back seat. Has the driver seen it? Has everyone seen it?

  My phone beeps. I can’t bring myself to look who it is.

  The driver keeps looking at me in the rear view mirror.

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  ‘Sorry love, you just look like you’re going to be sick. Do you need me to pull over?’

  I sit up.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, looking out the window. We pull up at a traffic light, and someone who is about to cross the road makes eye contact with me. I duck again. What if they know?

  ‘Are you hiding from the police, love?’ the taxi driver says, jokingly, but also with concern in his tone.

  ‘No, but please just get me home as quick as you can. I need to be in my house.’ Ten minutes later, I am home. I double lock the door. The house feels cold; I’m not supposed to be here, I’m supposed to be at work. It wasn’t expecting me. It feels small, claustrophobic, and there is the distant smell of sick. I sit on the stairs.

  No. No, this isn’t real. I don’t deserve it to be real, why would this happen to me?

  Maybe because I wanked on a fucking train. WHAT was I thinking?

  I walk into the kitchen, turning on the heating on the way, I’m so cold. I put the kettle on. This isn’t real. I take long, slow breaths as I try to ignore the calling of my laptop in my bag. I need to hold off looking. These last few minutes are important; I must treasure them, before I see the severity of this thing that isn’t real yet. I wait for the kettle, I make some tea. I take it over to the kitchen table, get my computer out of my bag and open it. As it loads up, I stay calm. There is air in my lungs. Whatever happens, I will survive.