‘Wait, so you got pregnant and then broke up with Phil? Does he not want kids? I always thought he wanted kids?’
‘He does want kids, but not with me. And I don’t want them with him. It’s not Phil’s baby,’ I say, looking proud.
‘What? You were having an affair? Then whose baby is it?’
I look her in the eye and raise my eyebrows. I am urging her to guess. She can do it, I know she can.
‘Wait, no, surely not?’ she says, working it out. I nod slowly, with a very naughty look on my face. ‘Jason?’ she asks.
‘Yup!’ I say, proudly. ‘I’m having Jason’s baby. We’ve been seeing each other for a while and it just happened.’
‘I don’t get it. I should be so angry at you for cheating on Phil but I could tell you guys weren’t happy, so this is obviously the right thing. You’re having a baby. Oh my God, here, look, this is the list of stuff you need. Shall we both just get it all today?’
There is that look again, that crazed, glazed stare that brides and mums-to-be get when they can’t think about anything else but weddings or babies. It’s kind of terrifying. I’ll never be like that.
‘Oh no, today’s about you. I’m only a few weeks gone. I shouldn’t have told you really.’ I say this to cover my back. If I don’t get pregnant this month, I can always just tell her I lost it.
‘Oh, sure. Of course. What did Jason say when you told him?’
I wonder what to say to this. Jess wouldn’t understand the whole ‘doing it alone’ thing. She needs romance to engage with anything. I know she’s taking this well because she finds Jason so utterly dreamy; I don’t want to shatter that illusion for her. I’ll work out the bit about him not being involved later.
‘Oh he was thrilled, of course. Shocked, we both were, but absolutely thrilled.’
‘God, I love him. What a guy. I can’t deny I’m a bit jealous, he’s just the most delicious thing. Stella, wow, I mean you landed on your feet there.’
‘Thanks, I think so too.’
‘Poor Phil though, he …’
‘No, Jess. No “poor Phil”, OK? We hadn’t been good in ages, he wanted out, so did I, everyone wins, OK?’
‘OK,’ she says, with one hard nod, signifying that she gets it, and will not mention Phil again. ‘OK, well we have to get a little something today? Look, what about this?’ She holds up a bib with little monkeys all over it.
‘Sure, OK,’ I say, smiling. ‘Go for it.’
‘Great, I am officially the first person to buy your baby a present. Done!’ She throws it into her basket and refers back to her list. ‘OK, nipple pads …’ Linking her arm with mine, she laughs, ‘Where are those sexy sods then?’
And just like that, for the first time since Alice died, I feel a sense of belonging.
Cam
When Cam is with her mother, she feels completely powerless. Everything that she stands for in the rest of the world means nothing, because her mother doesn’t care about any of it. Or at least, that is what she wants Cam to believe.
‘It’s a very impractical rug,’ she says, pointing at Camilla’s shag pile. ‘It will be ruined in no time, with people walking all over it.’
‘No one walks on it though, it’s only me here. I lie on it.’
‘A rug that only gets laid on. It’s a show rug? That’s a bit silly. But I guess it’s nice to lie down on after hiking up all of those stairs.’
‘Yes, Mum, it’s a show rug. And I love it,’ Cam says, putting the kettle on. She knew her mother coming over to her flat for the first time wouldn’t be easy. She needs to let her get all the criticism out of her system before she can pay any compliments. It usually takes around two visits, but because of the splendour of this amazing flat, Cam suspects it might take three this time.
‘How are you feeling, love?’ says Cam’s dad, as they follow her into the kitchen.
‘Rough, actually. Sick, crampy.’
‘Well, what is wrong with you?’ asks her mum, taking over the tea making.
Cam watches her pour boiling water into cups, and drop the tea bags in afterwards. It’s how her mum has always made tea, and Cam thinks it tastes rubbish because of it. But she’s never told her mum that she’s wrong, because she can’t deal with the defensiveness that comes with telling her she isn’t perfect.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says, in one of her biggest ‘fuck it’ moments of all time.
‘Oh God,’ says her dad, sitting down and rubbing his face with his hands. Her mother doesn’t move, just stares at the cups. ‘Oh,’ she eventually says. Cam is surprised by her unenthusiastic reaction; she thought at least that part of the story would make her mum happy. She doesn’t see much reason to hold back on the rest after that.
‘I don’t want to lie to you both, but you know how I feel about having children. I’m having an abortion on Thursday.’
This isn’t entirely true. Cam would happily have lied to her mum, but she thought that maybe if she knew about the abortion, she would truly understand that she means it when she says she doesn’t want children. And besides, she plans to write about it, so she’d better tell her first.
‘Is it the twenty-eight-year-old’s?’ her mother asks, still staring into the middle distance.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I suppose this is because he is too young and irresponsible to stand up to his mistakes?’
‘No, Mum, this is my decision.’
With this, her mother picks up one of the cups, and smashes it in the sink. Cam’s dad instantly starts picking up the broken pieces of clay.
‘What happened to you to make you like this?’ Cam’s mum says, walking closer to her.
‘Nothing, Mum. Nothing happened. It’s just how I am.’
‘Jeremy, come on. We’re leaving,’ she says, picking up her bag. ‘I’m going to send one of your sisters round, maybe they can talk some sense into you.’
‘Mum, they won’t. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve booked the appointment.’
‘Why? Why can’t you even consider keeping it? We could help you, you could come and live with us. Bring your rug, if that is what you need.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Patricia,’ Cam’s dad bursts out. ‘Will you leave her alone. There is more to life than just being a mother, she isn’t one of those women.’
‘One of “those women”? Like me, you mean?’
‘Yes!’ exclaim Cam and her father, a little too enthusiastically.
‘I see.’
‘No, Mum, I didn’t mean it like that, I …’
‘Oh I know exactly what you meant. You think that because I dedicated my life to my family that I failed in some way, don’t you? You think it wasn’t real work?’
‘No, Mum, I don’t …’
‘How do you think it feels, Camilla? To read your daily blogs that promote a lifestyle so opposite to the one I lived? You talk about women like me in this dismissive way, like career is everything, like choosing family over fortune is a bleak alternative to real happiness. Like women like me are brainwashed in some way. Sad, even? Feminism thinks we are a waste of space, like our choices make us weak, like we create a problem. Your blog is a daily attack on everything I stand for, do you think I don’t see that?’
‘Mum, no. That isn’t what it is, it’s not against you, or who you are. It’s about me, and who I am.’
‘But you are my child, Camilla. You are a piece of me, no matter how much you try to deny it. I know you hate me, but this public slaying has gone far enough. Even in the piece you wrote about the photo, the one where you said you thought I was amazing, or however it was you put it, even then, there was this tone. This “but you’d never catch me being like her” attitude that you’ve pushed on to me since you were a little girl. What did I do so wrong to you?’
Cam tries to speak but nothing comes out.
Her mother thinks she hates her. That’s worse than being punched in the head.
/>
‘Congratulations on your success, I am very proud of you. There, I’ve said it. Now maybe you can quit with this crusade. You’ve hurt me, for years, well done. Mission accomplished. Jeremy, come on.’
She slams the door as she leaves, leaving Camilla and her dad motionless.
‘That was horrible,’ Camilla says after a few moments. ‘That was just horrible.’
‘Yes, it was,’ her dad confirms.
Cam moves slowly over to her chaise longue and sits down.
‘Maybe she’s right,’ she says, looking at her dad. ‘Maybe everything I am is a huge reaction to her. I guess it’s all so deep inside of me that I didn’t even realise.’
‘You’ve always challenged her, by being different. Right from when you were a little girl. She thought she had parenting down, and then you came along and threw it all up in the air. You wouldn’t wear the hand-me-downs, you didn’t cling onto her like the other girls did. There was this independent spirit and your mother doesn’t know what to do with people like that.’
‘People like you, Dad. That’s who you are?’
‘Yes, maybe. But I became what I needed to become to make this family work. I changed myself to be happy. It was a small sacrifice for the family that I wanted. Sounds pathetic, I suppose.’
‘No, Dad. None of it is pathetic. Nothing about parenting is pathetic. Is that what you both really think I believe?’
He shrugs his shoulders a little, and Cam feels even worse.
‘Dad, will you give us five minutes?’ she says, putting some flip flops on and heading outside. Her dad, of course, gives her whatever she needs.
As she approaches her parents’ car, Cam sees her mum sobbing in the passenger seat. Despite the tension that has always been a part of their relationship, this level of confrontation is very new.
‘Mum,’ she says, tapping on the window. ‘Mum, can we talk?’
Her mother slowly winds the window down. Cam knows this won’t be easy, but that they have to have this conversation. The sun is shining, the air is mild, it’s the perfect weather for a storm.
‘Look, I think you are a brilliant parent.’ Her mum huffs, and turns away. ‘Mum, come on, get out the car, please.’
Cam stands back and waits, making it quite clear she is not going anywhere until her mum has got out. Eventually she does as she asks, and they stand opposite each other, both wondering how this will play out.
‘Mum, please believe me when I say my work is not a direct attack at you. But maybe, in some subliminal way, I have been trying to make you understand me better by writing intricate details of who I am, and how I feel, with the hope that you will read it and accept me for me.’
Cam is surprised by how easily that comes to her, but more surprised at how true it is. It’s just never been a conscious thought until now. Her mother looks distraught.
‘Mum, you have never, ever, just taken me for who I am. You have always tried to make me like the other girls, to mould me into what you thought a daughter should be. You made me wear their clothes, you made me do gymnastics, you made me do everything they did. I used to tell you I wanted to be alone and you would make me play with them. And the older I got, the more there was at stake. The things I wanted to do, the person I wanted to be became clearer and clearer to me but still you never just looked at me and thought, “That’s my Cam, she’s different, she’s unique.” You just saw me as unsociable, or difficult, and so you built this chasm between us. By not accepting the little things about me, you could never accept the bigger things and now here we are, me telling you that I don’t want to have children, that I am not keeping this baby because it isn’t what I want, and you still think you can change me. But you can’t. You can’t change me, Mum, because I don’t need to be changed.’
Cam stands firm, feeling guilty for making her mum cry, but determined to stand her ground.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ says her mum, pathetically.
‘Do you though? I don’t believe you. You’ve never ever tried to make me happy, you’ve just tried to shape me into what you want me to be. It’s your happiness you’re after, Mum, not mine.’
‘Camilla, that isn’t very nice.’
‘Well, Mum, you’ve not been very nice. I’m really good. I’m focused, I’m kind, I’m clever and I am happy with my life. It’s OK for me to be a little weird, no one judges you for it. You have plenty of normal daughters.’
‘Bringing you girls up was my job. I wanted to be good at it. I’m sorry if you think I wasn’t.’
‘Mum, stop it. Stop seeing me as a failure of yours. Seriously, what is that about?’
‘I just think that to not want kids you must be so angry at me for something. That you were uninspired by me, to want to be the exact opposite to who I was.’
‘Mum, yes, you have been a bitch at times, and yes, you should have accepted me right from the start, but you have to see that you have four really great daughters. We are all really, really happy. Sure, Mel might moan about her varicose veins but she’s OK. She loves her kids, she is a brilliant mum. Tanya and Angela are brilliant mums too. Me? I’m a loner but so, so happy in my life. How can you have been anything but a great mum when you look at the adults you have created? We’re all excellent, Mum, and that’s down to you and Dad. OK?’
They stand in silence for a few seconds, as what Cam says sinks in.
‘You really are, aren’t you? You’re all really great girls?’ her mum says, smiling sweetly.
‘Yes, Mum, all of us.’
‘Thank you, Camilla. I think I needed to hear that. You try so hard as a parent and no one ever tells you if you’re doing it right. I just always presumed your life was a big reaction to my mistakes.’
‘It isn’t. It’s a reaction to who I am. OK?’
‘OK.’ They step towards each other and hug, years of tension evaporating just like that. If only I had found the confidence to say all of these things years ago, Cam thinks. But then, maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have had the career that she has.
‘Are you sure about the baby?’ her mum says, pulling away.
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything, Mum. I need you to understand that.’
‘I do. OK, I do. Maybe I can come with you? You’ve never liked going to the doctor?’
Cam wants to cry at the thought of this gesture, but she manages to hold it together.
‘That would be great, thanks, Mum.’
‘I’d like to be there for you. It’s my job.’ She grins, proudly.
‘Well, have my two favourite women worked things out?’ says Cam’s dad, coming up to them. Clearly he’d been listening for a while.
‘Yeah, I think we have,’ Cam says.
‘We have,’ confirms her mum.
‘Great, then we will see you on Thursday, Camilla. What time did you say your appointment was?’
‘Two.’
‘We will be here at one to get you. Try to get some sleep. It will be over before you know it, OK?’
‘Thanks, Dad, love you.’
Cam watches her mum and dad drive away. She can’t quite believe the turn that today took. After all her preaching to her readers, she’s proved herself right. Speaking up can change things.
Tara
All I do these days is Google myself. I used to trawl the Internet finding dirt on my contributors, now I do it to find dirt on me. Sitting in my parents’ kitchen, I am on my fourth cup of tea of the day and it’s only ten a.m. I’ve just found a website called DadsWhoWantTheirBabiesBack.com, where they’ve found a picture of Annie off Facebook, taken away her features that look like me (not many, as embarrassingly, she doesn’t look much like me at all), and created various Photofits of what her biological father could potentially look like with what is left. All with the hope he recognises himself and wants to be a part of her life. Apparently, some old cop who lost custody of his son in a divorce set this site up, and is making it his life’s ambition to reunite dads with their kids. In most case
s that sounds perfectly valid, but in mine, what the ACTUAL fuck?
This is the kind of thing you’d see in a movie and think no way, no way would human beings be this ridiculous. But here I am, looking at a number of images that look nothing like Nick, and reading words like, ‘If this is you, you have the right to know your daughter.’
OH, FUCK OFF.
Just as I’m about to slam shut my computer in a fit of rage, Sophie starts calling me on Skype. I decline the call. I don’t want to speak to her. She’s abandoned me in my time of need and whatever she has to say can wait until I am in the mood for it. But she calls again. And then again. And the truth is, I am bored out of my mind and maybe it might actually be quite nice to have a conversation with someone other than my mum or daughter. So I answer.
‘Hello?’ I say in a grumpy voice as our videos fire up. I see turquoise water behind her, and an even bluer sky. She is to the right of the screen, huge bug-eye black sunglasses swamping her face, her blonde hair wet and tangled in that cool sand-and-seawater way. Her tan is fantastic and I feel disgusting and pale, sitting at the kitchen table in my M&S pyjamas.
‘Hiiiii!’ she says, and I wish I’d never answered the call. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, so you care then?’ I say back, trying to hide as much of my face as I can with my cup of tea. I can see myself in the camera and I look really ugly.
‘Of course I care,’ she says, acting all offended. ‘It’s the Internet connection here, it’s really bad.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The Four Seasons Bora Bora. Oh hon, it’s amazing. The water is like sea soup, I’m swimming every day, eating really well. Been having loads of sex too, so that’s a bonus.’
‘Nice. With Carl?’ I ask, facetiously.
‘Yes, with Carl. God, you’re not still angry with me are you?’
I think about having a go at her but I really can’t be bothered. Also, it would be pointless. No matter what I say, the reality is when we get off this call I will still be in the kitchen in my pyjamas, and Sophie will still be in Bora Bora. She wins, no matter how this goes.
The Cows Page 27