‘It’s been a shit week,’ I say.
‘Oh, Tara, I know. I’ve seen all the articles. God, it’s like you’re Katie Price or something, they can’t get enough, can they?’
I choose not to ask how she’s managed to keep so up to date when she has such a terrible Internet connection. I knew she was lying.
‘It’s been horrible, and all the stuff about how I had Annie has really hurt me. I feel like they are going through my bins, they know everything about me. I don’t understand it.’
‘They’ve been really snooping haven’t they? I couldn’t believe it when I got that Facebook message from the Mail. And the way they worded it, all “We want to write a piece that tells the truth about who Tara is”, blah blah blah. They are such fuckers!’
‘Wait, what? What Facebook message? What are you talking about?’
‘You didn’t see it? I presumed you saw it; they sent it to everyone?’
‘Everyone who? Who sent it and who is everyone?’
‘All of your Facebook friends. Just after they found out your name, a journalist wrote to all your friends on Facebook and asked them for stories on you, offering money and everything. I didn’t take any money, I swear!’
‘God, I haven’t been on Facebook since this happened. It’s so horrible they contacted you all, that’s so creepy. Wait— what do you mean you didn’t take any money? Any money for what?’
‘It’s the way they worded it, babe; at first I didn’t know who I was talking to and I genuinely thought they were trying to help. It wasn’t until I was on the phone with her and I realised she was going to use it against you, she was all “So she never told the guy?” and I thought, uh oh …’
‘Wait, you told the Daily Mail about how I had Annie? It was you?’
‘Yeah, I mean, they would have found out about it anyway but I didn’t realise they’d use it the way that they did. I genuinely thought they’d sympathise with you or something, you know, you being a single mum and everything.’
I want to smash my fist through my computer screen, grab her by the neck and pull her into this kitchen so I can stamp repeatedly on her head. What friend does that? I see Carl in the background. He’s in expensive-looking swimming trunks, his tan glistening as water cascades over his handsome fifty-one-year-old body. He should know the truth about who he’s married to.
‘Hey, Carl,’ I shout, like a crazy drunk woman trying to get the attention of an ex-boyfriend. ‘Carl, want to know a few things about your wife?’
I see him try to work out what I’m saying, but he’s coming over to the screen.
‘Tara, what are you doing?’ says Sophie, nervously. But I am not stopping and there is a commotion as he gets closer to the microphone. I raise my voice even louder.
‘Hey, Carl, what about this … Your wife got the clap when she was twenty-three because she had a one-night stand with a barman.’
‘Tara, please, no,’ says Sophie, but I am like a dog with a bone, it’s all coming out.
‘Wanna know what else? I once found her asleep by a mountain of cocaine with two naked guys next to her and she couldn’t remember which one she’d slept with – or if it was both! Classy, huh?’
‘She did what?’ I hear him say, just before Sophie manages to get rid of the connection. She must have shut her laptop, because the picture is suddenly gone. I hope he heard every word, and that she is forced into honesty and dealing with the consequences of who she really is. I’ve stood by her through so much and the way she repays me is to tell the Daily fucking Mail my story? Urgh! No more, that friendship is done. I can’t wait to meet Camilla Stacey. I officially have a huge opening for a decent friend.
Stella
I keep getting the giggles at my desk. Jessica’s face when I told her I was pregnant, it was priceless. People won’t believe it when it happens, who would expect such good news for me? No one. I can’t wait to get it out there, I’ll write a Facebook post on that day for sure. How will I put it?
I am thrilled to announce that I’m having a baby. Before you ask, I have decided to do this on my own. I couldn’t be happier. I know that might surprise some of you, as I was always the quiet twin. But I know you will all be happy for me, and the bundle of joy on his or her way …
Of course I know there will be some judgement, but when the baby comes, people will move on. I’ll say it was a one-night stand. That I contacted him but he didn’t want to be a part of it, that I feel strong enough to do it without him. I’m not friends with Jason on Facebook so he’ll never see it, and if anyone asks too many questions I’ll just say I don’t want to go into it. I’ll swear Jessica to secrecy and I know she’ll keep it, because she’s loyal.
I’m going to love being a mum, I can tell. I’ll tell my baby what my mum always told me, that his dad didn’t want to be involved, and that you are better off being alone than surrounded by people who don’t love you.
I wonder if I’m ovulating? It makes me nervous to think that when I am, I’ll have to move fast. Jason and I have been getting on so well. I’ve been dressing a little sexier, more make-up, tighter tops, and I’m sure he’s noticed. He’s more tactile than he used to be. This morning he hugged me when he came in, he’s never done that before. I held onto him quite tightly when I did it, and kissed him softly on his cheek. If we’d have done that a week ago it would have been so weird, but it turns out cancer breaks down physical and emotional boundaries between colleagues. Who knew.
I check over my shoulder to see him busying away at his desk, and hide my ovulation test up my sleeve. In the toilet, I pee on it then wrap it in tissue and hide it up my sleeve again. I don’t want to spend ages in the loo waiting for the result, Jason might think I’m doing a poo, and I want him to fancy me. As I come out, I nearly leap twenty feet into the air and drop the ovulation stick on the floor, because Jessica is standing right in front of me.
‘Jessica, what are you doing here?’ I say, panicked. ‘How the fuck did you get in?’
‘Gosh, what a welcome.’
‘Sorry, you took me by surprise. How on earth did you get in, I didn’t hear the buzzer?’ I see Jason getting up from his desk. He’ll be wondering who it is.
‘The door was open; I think the catch might have broken. Anyway, I wanted to give you this, I stupidly went off with Mini Stella’s gift,’ Jessica says, pulling the bib out of her bag and waving it in the air just as Jason walks in. I throw myself at it and hide it under my top.
‘Oh, hello. What’s that?’ he says, quite rightly wondering what I just wedged between my breasts.
‘Oh, it’s a present, right Jessica, a surprise?’ I wink at her, as if to play along.
‘Oh, yes, OK, a surprise. Cute!’ She giggles.
‘Jessica, isn’t it? How are you, I haven’t seen you in ages?’ Jason says, with all the charm of Hugh Grant in Love, Actually. I see her melt towards him as he kisses her on each cheek. I can tell Jessica is repeating, I’m married with a baby on the way, I’m married with a baby on the way, in her mind.
‘Really well, thanks,’ she replies, gathering herself, and we all stand for a minute, feeling a bit awkward. I am hoping that she will leave now that she has given me the bib.
‘So, I guess congratulations are in order?’ she says, suddenly.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
‘Congratulations?’ Jason asks, confused.
‘Yes, congratulations about the b—’
‘THE BOOK,’ I butt in. ‘Congratulations about the book. I was telling Jess all about it at lunch. The book, right, Jess?’ I wink at her again, I have no idea what she thinks this game will be, but I push for her cooperation anyway. Another OTT wink from me and she realises that for whatever reason, I don’t want her to mention the baby.
‘Oh, yes, the book,’ she says. ‘Congratulations on the book?’
I move behind Jason and mouth, ‘He’s in a terrible mood’ to Jessica. She nods in a ‘oh, men, I get it’ type way. I think I covered my tracks.
‘Oh, thanks. Yeah, it’s been tough. Impossible in fact, but I’m nearly there.’
‘Well, I hope it does really well and that you get to live off the royalties and just lounge around at home with your lovely family,’ she says, unable to help herself.
‘My lovely family? Ha, now there’s a distant dream,’ Jason says, which to Jessica will sound like rather a heartless thing to say when I am pregnant with his child. Jessica throws me a look as if to say, ‘See what you mean about the mood’ and I roll my eyes.
‘Right, then,’ she says, ‘I better go. I want to go to the supermarket and get one of their three courses for £10 meals before they all sell out. That interview with the girl who … you know … on the train is on tonight and I do not want to miss that.’
My ears prick up again and more panic sets in.
‘What interview is that?’ Jason asks, intrigued.
‘Oh, you haven’t heard? Everyone’s talking about her. It’s the woman who,’ Jess pauses again, but this time finds the confidence to say the words, ‘masturbated on a train and got filmed and …’
‘OK, weird,’ I yelp. ‘Can’t talk about this at work. No no no, ewwwww, too much information. Brrrrrr. OK, Jess, we better crack on, it’s busy busy here this afternoon, OK? Thanks for dropping off the present and I’ll text you later, yeah?’ I am literally pushing her towards the door. My heart is thumping at the thought of her saying Tara’s name. I had totally forgotten about that show being on tonight; if Jason sees it, my plans will be ruined.
I see Jessica downstairs, moaning about Jason’s mood the whole way, promising he’ll get over it soon and that we can all go for a night out, then I shut the door behind her. It swings open. She was right, the catch is broken.
Back upstairs, Jason is still standing where I left him.
‘Are you OK, Stella? You are acting a little strange?’
‘Oh, yes, yes I’m OK. Well, you know, as fine as you can be when you are going through what I’m going through.’ Pause for sympathy. ‘I just wanted her out, I’m still annoyed with her for making my birthday all about her pregnancy, to be honest.’
‘Does she know? About … the cancer?’
‘No. Just you, I’ve only told you,’ I say, knowing that will make him feel special. Also, Jessica doesn’t even know about the BRCA gene; I couldn’t handle the level of sympathy she would drown me with.
‘I’m so glad you told me. If you need anything tonight, just let me know. I’ll leave my phone on again, OK?’
‘Cool, thanks. How’s it all going, anyway? Book coming along OK?’
‘Actually, yes. I’m a lot less stressed. I think seeing you cope so brilliantly with what is happening to you has given me some perspective. I’m lucky, I’m healthy. I need to focus on the positive more, and make this book really really good.’
‘That’s exactly right. This book is your legacy.’
‘I guess it is. What is your legacy going to be?’
‘Helping you with your book,’ I say, smiling. ‘You’ll give me a credit, won’t you? Stella Davies, the bossy bitch who made me write this.’
‘I will, although I might use stronger language than that. You’ve been incredibly mean about the Internet.’
‘It had to be done. You feeling better about Tara now?’ I ask, testing his desperation levels.
‘Yeah, I guess I realised that I’m pretty easy to find online. If Tara had liked me, she’d have found me by now, you were right. She could have just texted me, and she hasn’t, so I should probably just move on.’ I let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Yup, I’m just going to go home, lie on the sofa, write for a bit, then I might watch that interview with the girl on the train, sounds hilarious, I could do with a laugh.’
That relief instantly turns into fear.
‘Oh, um. No, don’t bother. I read some reviews, apparently it’s rubbish.’
‘To be honest, that’s what I need. Something inane and stupid that I don’t have to think about. A woman masturbating on a train sounds ideal. See you tomorrow, you OK to lock up?’
He goes to leave. Again, I have to think quickly. I see a glass, should I smash that? No, tried that, didn’t work last time and just resulted in some very sore knees. How can I trump shouting cancer? Nothing trumps cancer. Fuck, he’s leaving. He’ll watch Tara and all this will be over. That can’t happen, I’ll be ovulating in the next few days, I have to keep him away from her for a little bit longer. I have to stop him. How? Think Stella, think, think. Cancer … treatment … HAIR!
I put my hand to my head, clench my fist and pull it as hard as I can, screaming while I do it because it really, really hurts.
‘Jesus, what happened?’ Jason says, concerned and coming back into the room.
‘My hair,’ I say, with genuine pain and horror for the self-inflicted agony I just put upon myself.
‘My hair, it’s falling out.’
As I sit on the sofa in the studio clutching the cup of tea that Jason just made me, I try not to focus on the stinging burn on my head. Pulling your own hair out takes determination and force; I didn’t know I was capable of such a high level of self-administered pain.
‘I thought you just wanted to go home to watch TV?’ I ask, pretending not to be thrilled that the night has turned in my favour.
‘Oh, I hate TV. I’d just have sat there trying to relax while actually getting annoyed and then I wouldn’t have slept and then I’d have felt guilty that I hadn’t spent the night writing,’ he says, turning the studio lights on and putting a tall stool in front of us.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Setting up the shot. I want to photograph you.’
‘What? No. Jason, this is not how I want to be photographed,’ I say, freaking at the thought of my lie being caught on camera.
‘This is exactly how you should be photographed. Then, I think we should shave your head.’
I stand up quickly.
‘No, Jason. I don’t want to do that. I’ll let it fall out naturally, it will be fine.’
Jason stands behind the camera, takes a shot and the bright flash makes us both blink.
‘My friend had chemotherapy,’ he says, concentrating. ‘She said the thing she regretted was not shaving her head, because she ended up looking like Worzel Gummidge. You can own this, Stella. Or it can own you. Come on, get on the stool.’
I have seen Jason work this way multiple times. He gets so determined when he thinks of a shot that he ignores the subject’s insecurities. It can seem a little rude and insensitive and the model often huffs and puffs as they are directed by him to do what he wants, not what they want. But then they see the photo and they call him a genius, and they want to do it again and again. He is famous for photographing the un-photographable. And even though I have witnessed the magic that happens when he is behind the camera, I do not want to sit on that stool and be the subject of his work.
‘Jason, I can’t. I’m not comfortable in front of the camera.’
‘Stella, no one I ever photograph is comfortable in front of that camera, that is what I actively seek out. You’re intriguing to me. You’ve sat here for a year running my life, being cool, calm, presenting yourself like you have your shit together. You’ve always been so confident, so strong. I spend five days a week with you and I’d never have guessed you had been through what you’ve been through, and I certainly wouldn’t have guessed you were ill. You’re incredible, Stella. Really incredible.’
Did he really have no idea that my life is actually the way it is? None at all? I always presumed that sadness seeped out of my pores, that people pick up on my pain instantly, and that was why they generally don’t like me. I don’t know how a person can feel the way I do inside and keep that truly hidden. Phil saw it, he couldn’t ignore it. I thought Jason just professionally ignored my anxiety, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe he really likes me. Maybe he does think I’m amazing.
I do as he says, I suppose he’s right. If I don’t like the photo, we can jus
t delete it? I feel a little plumper than usual, due to all the cough syrup I’ve been drinking that is pretty much pure sugar. Not losing weight was another tip for conceiving a boy. I suck in my tummy, and try to feel beautiful.
‘OK, perch on the stool,’ he tells me. ‘Fluff your hair up a bit. This is the “before” shot, so we need that hair as bouncy as possible.’
I do as he says, and draw my hands upwards against my scalp to raise the volume of my hair. The right side stings like I’ve been punched in the head, as I skim over the bald patch.
‘OK, look straight into the lens.’
I straighten my back and push my chest out. Despite the pain, I scratch my head with the tips of my fingers to add as much volume to my hair as I can. I relax my face and look deeply into the lens. Jason takes photo after photo. I don’t even need to see them to know I don’t want them deleted.
‘Stella,’ says Jason after we’ve been lost in a blur of something indescribable for over twenty minutes. ‘You’re really beautiful.’
‘You sound surprised,’ I say, smiling. A real smile, caused by real happiness at being called beautiful by someone who I believe means it.
‘I should have taken your picture years ago,’ he says, looking at one of the images on the back of his camera.
‘There was no need though, was there?’
‘No need? To take a photograph?’
‘Maybe there was nothing to photograph before I had cancer.’
Jason slightly readjusts the lights. A little softer, a little closer. I feel like a statue. A beautiful centrepiece in a room. The pull of energy around me is like flowers reaching towards the light. Has the world just noticed me for the first time?
‘OK, that’s it,’ he says, when his camera card is full. He looks down, like he’s having a thought he shouldn’t be having.
‘What is it?’ I ask, hoping it’s about me.
‘Your hair, it’s so sexy.’
‘Jason, please!’ I say, pretending to be horrified.
‘But you’re going to look good without it, it won’t change that look in your eye.’
The Cows Page 28