The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  @TaraThomas123 From one mother to another, do what is right for your daughter and tell her who her father is. She has a right to know. You have no right to keep them apart.

  @TaraThomas123 I’m sure you love your daughter, so why rob her of her truth?

  @TaraThomas123 You should be ashamed of yourself. Call yourself a mother?

  The truth is, I can just about take what people throw at me for the actions that I took. I can handle being called a slut, and I can cope, kind of, with aimless threats online. But every time anyone mentions my daughter, a guilt creeps through me that makes me feel physically sick.

  Maybe they’re right; maybe I should tell her? I always presumed one day I would, she’d need some kind of explanation. But I was going to tell her I wouldn’t know how to contact him, more for him than her, if I’m honest. And maybe that is really terrible of me as a mother, because I remember exactly where he lives. I think I just always presumed that at some point I would meet someone and Annie would have a father figure in her life. I suppose I can give up all hope of that now, who is going to want to be in a relationship with Wank Woman? Other than @BigGunnerz.

  I type Jason’s name into Google, like I have so many times over the past week. I found him immediately when I first Googled him at the weekend, just searched for that Times article and there he was, Jason Scott. His work is incredible. The detail he captures; the stories his pictures tell. The way he reads a person with his lens is so powerful, like a book that needs no words to tell the story – his photos take you on a journey.

  I have been staring at our text chat like it’s a door that he’s sitting just behind. It’s like being on a diet and being locked in a room with a box of doughnuts. The temptation to text him is killing me.

  I just don’t know if I believe that he didn’t feel the same way that I did, and also, he seemed so liberal. Not that any amount of liberal means someone would be OK with dating a person who has been seen wanking on a train by the entire world, but from the small amount I got to know him, I’d say he was more the kind of person to say something cheeky than not say something. Maybe I just scared him off a bit? That would be fair, I suppose. ‘Any special requests’ could be read all kinds of ways. He might think I’m into electric probes, dungeons or anal beads? Maybe if I just explained myself, said I didn’t mean anything too kinky? Make it clear I’m up for kinky stuff if he is, but I’m not a fetishist or anything. But how do you get that across in a text? And then there is the video, that he has probably seen. He’d have spent the weekend thinking I was a crazy sex perv then seen that, which basically confirmed it.

  I should let this go, walk away, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about him. I have to text him. But then, what if he still doesn’t reply? I’m not sure my self-esteem could take it. But then, how could I feel worse? Things literally couldn’t be worse. So I reach for my phone. I go to our conversation. And I text him. Fuck it.

  ‘Love?’ Mum shouts up the stairs, making me jump and snapping me back into my real world.

  ‘Yeah,’ I shout back.

  ‘I’m going to go into town. Would you like anything from Marks and Spencer’s?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I reply, then hear her come up the stairs anyway.

  ‘You sure love? I could get you the hummus, or those little cocktail sausages?’

  I shake my head. I haven’t been hungry for days and Mum keeps trying to feed me.

  ‘You need to eat, love.’

  ‘Mum, I know I need to eat. I have been a human for forty-two years and so have a lot of experience with the “food is fuel” procedure, I’m just not hungry, OK?’

  ‘OK, love, no need to be snappy, it’s probably just because you’re hungry. I’ll get the hummus.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum. I am not angry because I am hungry, I am angry because I am Walthamstow W—’

  ‘No, Tara, no! I can’t hear it any more, OK? I’m having a little shot of whisky every night because of this. I can’t hear it any more. Now, would you like some bloody cocktail sausages or not?’

  We both stare aimlessly at each other. Unlike my teenage self, who would sit in this very room and be stroppy all the time, I care about not hurting her. I calm myself with a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, please, Mum. Thank you,’ I say, very politely.

  ‘Right then,’ she says as she goes back downstairs. I hear the front door open, then close with a little more force than normal.

  I look at my phone. Nothing. Urgh, why did I text him, I feel even more stupid. An email comes in from Cam Stacey.

  Hey, just checking in, you still alive?

  Hey Cam, my mother is showing signs of alcoholism and force feeding me sausages. You get the idea.

  Loved your piece on being able to turn life around by making good decisions. I’m trying to be proactive, in little ways, but not an awful lot of opportunity is presenting itself right now.

  I’ll eat the sausages and start with that.

  Thanks for checking in, it means a lot to me,

  T x

  I sit for a moment with my phone in my lap, thinking if I don’t look at it for two whole minutes, maybe there’ll be a text. After eighty-five seconds I pick it up. Nothing.

  Bloody hell, Jason – just text me will you?

  Stella

  I reactivated my Facebook account. I couldn’t help it. I just needed one more look, one more session of torturing myself with other people’s joy.

  I sit at my desk, scrolling through my feed, getting more and more hateful with every status that I read. Groups of friends, happy families, big achievements. It’s like rubbing my face with a handful of wasp stings. Why do I do it to myself?

  Imagine their faces if I was to write the truth about what I did this weekend. How would that sit among the marital bliss and the joy of motherhood?

  Can people handle the truth? I type it to see how it looks.

  Met a guy on Tinder this weekend. Collected his sperm in a condom then tried to get myself pregnant with it. Changed my mind halfway through, so douched, but if any of the little swimmers made it I’ll be sure to post relentless pictures on here. Have a nice week!

  My cursor hovers over the POST button. Imagine the uproar, the drama it would cause. What is that little voice inside of me telling me to do it, do it for the thrill? But I don’t, of course. It isn’t attention I want, it’s relief. I deactivate my account again. They really need a more severe solution for people who have legit Facebook addictions. I can reactivate and deactivate whenever I want; it is literally impossible for me to get rid of it permanently, so I probably never will.

  But I’m going to try to stay off it. I will. I will, I will, I will.

  My puffy face feels raw, my swollen eyes sting. Phil used to say it would be good for me to cry; I feel like calling him to tell him how wrong he was. Letting things consume me in that way didn’t get anything out, it just reminded me how ultimately shit everything is. I don’t feel relieved; I feel infested with grief. There is no positive end in sight for me, and crying doesn’t change that. Maybe I should just book the surgery? Accept it? The thought of it makes me cry even more.

  ‘Stella, did my phone arrive?’ says Jason, appearing out of his office too quickly for me to sort myself out. ‘Jesus, what happened?’ he says, and I quickly put my hands to my eyes, as if to push the tears back in.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, ‘just tired.’

  ‘You are not fine. What happened?’ he presses. I can see he’s not quite sure what to do, he’s never seen me show much emotion before. It’s always him who is flapping around making a drama out of everything, with me supporting him however I can.

  Realising that I can’t pass tears off as normal, and knowing how much I hate it when people do public displays of emotion and then act all ‘nothing’ about it, I tell Jason the only part of it all that I’m willing to share.

  ‘I split up with my boyfriend,’ I say, feeling an unfamiliar sense of relief for being emotionally honest, but also ann
oyed that he’ll think I am so upset about the most trivial part of all this.

  ‘Oh Stella, I’m so sorry.’ He steps closer. Is he thinking about hugging me? I’m not sure what the boundaries are in a situation like this, him being my boss, us being alone. He hovers backwards and forwards, then eventually puts a hand on my shoulder. We’re both relieved he found a solution.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say and he’s a good person. ‘I always presumed everything was happy on the home front.’

  ‘Yes you keep saying that, and it’s not,’ I say, snapping. The more he tells me how perfect he thinks my home life is, the more it feels like I’ve failed. He senses my tone.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude when I say it, I just … I should stop speaking. You’re just always so consistent, it’s hard to believe things weren’t OK at home. That’s all. Sorry if that’s out of turn.’

  ‘I don’t feel very consistent.’

  ‘You always seem so in control.’

  ‘You pay me to be in control. If I didn’t control you, you’d never get anything done.’ I smile at him. He nods in agreement.

  ‘Hey, well if you need any advice on how to be a single loser, just ask. I’m a pro at this, I get dumped all the time.’

  ‘OK. Thanks,’ I say, the tears drying up a little. This is probably the most intimate conversation I’ve had with anyone other than a doctor in about six months. It feels good. Good to be open with him. We spend eight hours a day, five days a week together and although we get on well, it’s work, not a friendship. We talk, but mostly about him, and the basics about me. The last few weeks have been particularly cosy. Because of his book deadline, the studio, which is usually alive with models, editors, stylists, journalists and make-up artists, has been dead. I have so little to do that I’m spending most of my days reading the Internet, trawling through Facebook and getting myself in a state, realising that everyone seems to be happy except me.

  Jason asked me not to take this time as holiday so that I could keep him motivated. All that has involved is an Internet ban, multiple cups of coffee and a few words of encouragement. But it’s given me too much time to think, during a period of my life where I should probably be trying to distract myself from me.

  ‘OK, well, just let me know if I can help. We’re good people, and good people don’t die alone. We’ll find love, and have families, and be incredibly happy and fulfilled. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself,’ he says, his gentle eyes giving me a shot of reassurance, along with a bolt of something else that I can’t quite identify.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, scrunching my eyes as an idea creeps into my head.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder again. At first it feels wrong, inappropriate or awkward. But then my hand reaches up, and my fingers lie gently over his. My body relaxes as I accept the comfort that this small gesture is offering me.

  ‘The guy’s an idiot, Stella. If I had a girlfriend like you, I’d never let you go.’

  He goes back into his office, and I sit very still at my desk.

  Woah.

  I shake my face, as if to stop my brain from carrying on with a train of thought that I know is wrong. But it’s too late, my imagination is in motion.

  Could I have a baby with Jason?

  The sound of the doorbell cuts through the air and snaps me into reality. I buzz up a delivery guy who passes me a small box with Vodafone written on it. I sign for it, and walk slowly back to my desk.

  ‘Is that my phone?’ Jason calls from his office. He’s desperate for Tara’s number. Without much thought, I find myself replying, ‘No, not yet. Just the post.’ I hear him huff with disappointment.

  ‘I’m shutting your door, OK? So you can concentrate,’ I say, pulling it shut.

  ‘Yes, boss!’

  I take a seat at my desk and quickly unwrap the phone. I put it on silent, and turn it on and go through the set up. I go to settings and restrict the Internet. He’ll need a password to get it back again, and I’m not going to tell him what it is. As the phone wakes up, various messages come through. Good luck messages from his mum, a couple of mates asking him to go for drinks. He hasn’t missed anything too important. I go to his Facebook, a few of his friends have posted Tara’s video on his page, asking if he’s seen it. I delete all of his social apps. And then a text from ‘TARA’ pops up.

  Hey, look, I’m sorry if I came across like a dominatrix crazy pervert. I had a really great night with you and I’m not sure I’m willing to accept that a connection like that can be ignored just because I’m an Internet sensation for publicly exposing myself. I’m quite normal, I promise. And I’d love to see you again. Tara x

  I have to stand up and walk away from my desk. I think of Jason in his office, his deadline, his eyes, his hand on my shoulder. If I had a girlfriend like you, I’d never let you go. Those words. From a man I know, who is desperate for a baby, just like me. I pick up the phone. I open Tara’s message, I write a reply, I press send. My stomach whirls. There is that thrill I’ve been looking for. Acting for myself, taking my life into my own hands. It feels fucking fantastic. I block her number, then delete it, before knocking on Jason’s door.

  ‘It’s here,’ I say, joyfully.

  He looks so happy. I give it to him and walk away slowly as if absolutely nothing is happening that should require my attention.

  ‘It’s not here,’ he yells, storming out of his office a minute later and looking wildly distressed.

  I play along.

  ‘What’s not there?’

  ‘Tara’s number. It’s not saved. I thought you said it would be in The Cloud?’

  ‘Oh Jason, come on now, it must be there. Let me have a look. Tara, right?’ I say, acting all innocent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmmmm, are you sure you spelt it right?’ I ask, scrolling through his address book.

  ‘How else would I have spelt it, it’s T-A-R-A.’

  ‘It’s not here,’ I confirm. ‘Maybe you didn’t save it? Did you save it?’

  Jason grabs his phone back. ‘I don’t know now, do I? I was drunk. I texted her, does that mean I saved it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I don’t know how I couldn’t have saved it … but maybe I didn’t. Oh for fuck’s sake.’ He throws his phone down on the couch in his office and storms over to the window, with folded arms. He looks genuinely devastated. ‘Give me the Internet, I’m going to find her.’

  ‘No, absolutely not. You won’t get your book finished if you’re heartbroken.’

  ‘I won’t be heartbroken, I’ll be in love? Give me your computer.’

  ‘Jason, look, sorry to say the obvious but maybe she didn’t feel the same way about you. She could have found you online, right? I’ve been checking your email constantly and there is nothing from her, your email address is on the website. And she hasn’t texted, it would have come through by now.’

  Jason’s smile lines shoot towards the floor as he realises I am right.

  ‘But we were texting! Then the guy on the bike came and … we were so into each other.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you go home together?’ I ask, pushing it.

  ‘She … didn’t want to.’

  I raise my eyebrows as if to say ‘there you go’ and sit back in my chair. Jason slumps back into his office like an exhausted bear that just lost a fight. I did him a favour; if he found Tara and saw what she’d been up to he’d never get his book written. My idea is less distracting. He won’t even know it’s happening.

  Tara

  I’d given up hope of getting a reply to my text but then there it is, on my home screen. Jason.

  I’m too scared to read it in case he doesn’t want to see me again. If he does, then why is he only replying now? What if he is telling me to leave him alone? I feel like I’m about to open my exam results.

  I run into the bathroom and look at my face. I brush my hair. I put on some mascara, and some lip balm. Looking b
etter will make me feel better if I’m about to get dumped by text by someone I only knew for four hours. I tell myself that whatever he says just doesn’t matter, he’s not a part of my life, this guy doesn’t have to hurt me. I am beautiful, I am strong, I can deal with this.

  But who am I kidding? I have thought about him constantly since Friday. I know we only met once but it was good. It was really, really good. I tear back into my bedroom, pick up my phone and open the message. I might as well just rip this plaster off.

  Tara, sorry to say but I think you misread the signs. It was nice to meet you but I’m not sure I see this going anywhere. Sorry to mess you about and good luck with everything, J.

  Misread the signs? What? No, I didn’t. You can’t misread signs that press up against your leg and tell you they want to fuck you. How could he be like this? I knew there must have been something wrong with him. Guys that good aren’t just single for no reason.

  You know what? Screw him. I don’t need a man like that. I need a man who is tough enough to handle how I had Annie, and tough enough to handle the fact I am an Internet sensation and global joke.

  Oh, God.

  I’m going to be single forever.

  Men are way too egotistical to cope with either of those things. I might as well just sew up my fanny and marry God. I don’t see any way out of this. It’s been ten days and it’s not dying down. Every time I dare to look at Twitter I’ve got thousands more followers and #WankWoman is still trending. A parody account – @ShitWankWomanSays – has over 400,000 followers and whoever it is posts tweets almost every two hours along the lines of: