The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  ‘I don’t want to shave it, honestly, I’ll just wait. My hair, it’s my thing,’ I say, swishing it a little, knowing how much he loves girls with long hair and needing him to fancy me.

  He walks over to me, ‘But when I saw you through the lens, it’s your eyes that captured me. Trust me, Stella, it’s not your hair that makes you sexy.’

  And with that, I say, ‘Let’s do it.’

  Tara

  I remember the night really well. It’s always been important to me that I did. I met Nick in the queue to the loos in a pub when I was out celebrating a friend’s birthday. We were waiting for ages; someone in the toilet was either really ill, having sex or fast asleep. We were both desperate and it made for quite a funny introduction. ‘I actually think it would have been quicker for me to go home,’ he said. ‘I live minutes away. If you’re desperate, you can come with me?’

  I agreed; it was either that or peeing on the floor. Which I was becoming more and more comfortable with the idea of, but a toilet in a house was always going to win.

  Back at his place, he showed me into the downstairs loo while he went to the one upstairs. I peed for ages, like two pints were coming out of me. I made it just in time. When he came down I told him I was thinking of going home anyway, and asked if he minded hanging on while I ordered a taxi. Next thing I know, we are having a whisky, and not long after that, my knickers are on his kitchen floor and we were having sex on the kitchen worktop. Twenty minutes later, I was getting into a taxi and watching him walk back to the pub. We didn’t even swap numbers. It sounds absolutely terrible, but weirdly, it wasn’t. It wasn’t seedy, or uncomfortable or dirty, it was just a shag. Just a nice moment between two strangers who really fancied each other and acted on it. One of my best sexual encounters ever, actually. It felt really, really good. I remember thinking how cool that was on the way home, that sex like that existed between two consenting adults. No pressure, no hassle, no strings. I was cool with it; he was cool with it. I did beat myself up for not using a condom though, so a week later I went and had an STD test. It all came back negative, so I just banked the whole experience as something really fun and a bit wild and cracked on with my life. He knew no one I knew, and vice versa. We never had to see each other again. There was something really liberating about it.

  Until three weeks later, when I realised I should probably have had a period but hadn’t. I got a test, it was positive and I went through all the motions of how I thought I should deal with it. I immediately booked an appointment for an abortion a week later but when the day came, I just couldn’t go. I was thirty-six, with no prospects of a relationship. I wanted kids and was pragmatic enough to be honest with myself that it might not happen with moonlight and roses. So I cancelled the appointment, told my mum and dad I was doing it, and kept the baby. Dad didn’t speak to me for two months, but when I came home with a scan photo and told him it was a girl, he cried and has supported me ever since.

  Once the decision was made, I never allowed myself to question it. It was my choice, my body, my baby. I didn’t want to go into motherhood feeling like Annie was a mistake. Sure, the conception wasn’t intentional, but my decision to keep her was. It was a well-thought-out, calculated decision.

  I knew it was controversial not to tell Nick, but I didn’t feel that it was wrong. Married people have affairs, parents abandon kids, people steal, rape, and hurt other people all the time. All I did was not give an innocent guy a big problem. We wouldn’t have fallen in love just because of the baby, because real life is not like a Jennifer Aniston movie. If I’d have told him, he would be bound to be involved, and if he wasn’t, then he’d feel like an arsehole. So I never told him. And now, for the first time in six years, I am questioning if that was a massively cuntish thing to have done. It seems to be the part of my recent exposure that has upset people the most. And it has made me rethink a decision that for so many years felt so simple, and so right. It was my body, my baby. But was it my right? Maybe I should just tell him?

  The pub was The Sun on Clapham High Street. To get to his house we took a right, then a left and it was about four doors up on the right. It was dark, but I’m pretty sure the front door was green. I’ll find it. I’m certain he owned it, it was a bit fancy for a rental. If he’s still there, I’ll tell him. He might have seen the video. He could have recognised me, Googled me, read about Annie and done the maths himself. Maybe he’s trying to find me. Or maybe he never wants to see me again. I guess I’m about to find out.

  Wearing a beanie hat and a scarf, I get the tube across town to Clapham Common. I watch everyone on the train. Are all these people really squeaky clean? Of course not. If cameras followed them all to where they are going I bet a bunch of them would commit some lurid sexual act that would have them victimised by society like I have been. Debauchery is all around. It only matters if you’re unlucky enough to get caught.

  I look suspicious with my hat pulled down and my scarf over my face on such a warm evening. People are looking at me as if I have a bomb up my shirt, but I’d rather they thought that than have them see my face and recognise me. I’m not OK with being in public yet. I’m not sure I ever will be, especially after tonight’s interview goes out. Oh God, every time I think about it I get shivers.

  At Clapham Common tube, I walk to The Sun pub. I take a right, then a left. This is the street. Four doors up on the right. I’m certain that’s the house. Number eight. It doesn’t look much different apart from a few window boxes, which may or may not have been there the night we had sex. I see myself tottering away, getting in the taxi and watching him walk back to the pub, unaware that inside me, Annie was being created.

  Being here feels strange. I always felt I had no connection to this place or Nick but now I’m back, knowing it was the place that my child was created, I have an odd feeling of nostalgia, like this house matters to us. Annie’s soul is here, I can’t pretend this place isn’t important.

  But why am I here? I’m here because maybe everyone on the Internet is right, maybe I did do a terrible thing. I wonder how it would have felt to come back here three weeks later to tell Nick I was pregnant. How horrible that would have been for both of us, how weird, how awkward. And then what? What would I have been asking of him? For his money, for his time? Neither. I would have just been telling him he was having a baby I didn’t want him to have anything to do with. It was my decision to keep it, it was right for me. Telling him would have been selfish, I have always fully believed that. Until now. Until I read multiple articles and tweets calling me evil for not telling him he was having a baby. So here I am, six years later. To tell him he has a daughter.

  I knock on the door. I hear footsteps and then Nick is standing in front of me, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly, but of course it would, if he is home. I wasn’t sure I’d recognise him from that one night, but he looks exactly the same.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, knowing he’ll be shocked to see me but standing firm that this is the right thing to do. I see the kitchen at the end of the hall. That’s where we did it.

  ‘Hello?’ he says back, much less awkwardly than I imagine. He has no idea who I am. Maybe I should have planned what to say, because I’m suddenly completely stuck for words.

  ‘Remember me?’ I ask, doing a big cheesy smile as if I’m a long-lost cousin who he loved as a kid.

  ‘Um, no, I’m sorry, am I supposed to?’

  Is he supposed to? I don’t know.

  ‘I’m Tara, from the pub.’ As I say this, I can’t even be sure I ever told him my name.

  ‘Tara from the pub? Oh, did I leave my card?’

  ‘No, no not the pub now. I mean the pub six years ago. We met in the pub six years ago. I came back here with you, we— I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What is this?’ he asks, looking down the street as if maybe he is being filmed or something. I am struggling to think of anything to say because he looks so much like Annie, and it’s really floored me. Her eyes, her nose,
they are just a mini version of his. It’s too surreal. He’s her flesh and blood.

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong house,’ he says, going to shut the door. I put my hand out to keep it open.

  ‘No, I haven’t. You’re Nick, I’m Tara, although I don’t know if I ever told you my name. We had sex in your kitchen before I got a taxi home, six years ago, remember?’

  ‘OK, you’re clearly having some kind of laugh. You’re turning up six years later because?’

  ‘Because I have a six-year-old daughter and I thought you should know.’

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look as terrified. His entire face grew by a few millimetres as veins and sweat popped out of him like splats from a paintball gun. I feel sick for him; this is so cruel.

  And then I see a gorgeous, heavily pregnant woman appear on the stairs behind him. ‘I’m only joking,’ I find myself shrieking, ‘totally got the wrong house.’

  ‘Who is it, baby?’ asks his pregnant wife. I see a ring glistening on her left hand.

  ‘I’m no one,’ I tell her. ‘I got the wrong house. Don’t mind me.’

  Nick keeps looking at me. The horror in his eyes going from fear to hate to anger and back to fear. He doesn’t deserve this. I should never have come.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I say, all cheery and weird to protect this poor guy from having to deal with what could ruin this otherwise magical time in his life. He gives me one final look of disgust, that unequivocally tells me that he does not want to know about Annie. And I don’t feel a shred of anger back, I couldn’t agree with him more. And as I walk away from what was potentially a terrible, horrible and demoralising moment, I feel an odd sense of empowerment. I did the right thing back then, and no one has the right to tell me otherwise. I am an excellent mother, and my daughter will grow up understanding that her own choices are the right choices, no matter what anyone else thinks. That’s the greatest lesson I can teach her.

  13

  Tara

  I’ve sat on this sofa a million times watching TV with my parents. We’ve all squirmed uncomfortably during sex scenes and talked energetically over extreme swearing but never has the atmosphere felt as tense as it is right now. It’s 9.55 p.m. and my interview on Sky is airing at ten. I dared look at Twitter to see if anyone cared, and saw that #WankWomanOnTV has been trending all afternoon.

  I’m nervous about how I’ll come across. They will hardly be kind because I didn’t give them what they wanted, but I’m hoping that by not apologising they will realise I am not weak, and that I deserve to be edited well. Maybe people will be inspired by me.

  Maybe not.

  My dad is sitting in his armchair with his head in his right hand. He’s wearing a knitted jumper that my mum got from a charity shop. She cut the label out and made me give it to him as a present, saying I knitted it for him. I did as she said, and felt ridiculous. He hasn’t said a word to me, but I know he’s coming round, because he hasn’t taken the jumper off for days. He’s flitting between looking at the curtains and looking at the TV. My mother told him he has to watch the interview. He said he didn’t want to, but I know he’s as intrigued as I am to see what happens. Mum has made us all popcorn, and she won’t shut up about it. It’s so surreal, like we’re about to sit down and watch a Bond movie.

  ‘Do you think it’s too salty? I never know how much salt to put on,’ Mum asks.

  Dad and I both ignore her. The news starts and my face pops up on screen. The host speaks.

  ‘Tonight we have an exclusive interview with the woman who has become a global sensation for being filmed pleasuring herself in public.’

  My father lets out a huge groan and stares at the curtains again. I feel sick. The humiliation just washes over in waves, hot and sweaty, then sickly and cold.

  ‘I think it’s too salty,’ says my mother.

  ‘Oh shut up about the popcorn,’ my dad and I bark, in our first moment of solidarity since this whole shit fest began.

  ‘Now, in her first interview since the video of her antics became a global viral sensation, Damien Weymouth interviews Tara Thomas about life after public shame.’

  ‘Oh, Tara,’ says Mum, putting down the popcorn. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  The TV cuts to Damien, sitting on Dad’s chair, in this very room. He begins his introduction.

  ‘Hello, and welcome to the special interview with me, Damien Weymouth. Now, unless you have been living under a stone, you will have heard of my guest today. Twelve days ago Tara Thomas was living a normal life, working in television and taking care of her daughter, Annie …’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t bloody do this,’ says my dad, suddenly standing up. ‘I can’t watch my daughter talk about that, with that man, on my chair, on our TV. I just can’t bloody do it.’

  He’s up and out the door, stomping up the stairs too quickly for Mum or I to talk him out of it. Part of me is pissed off he isn’t man enough to deal with this, the other part is delighted that he’s gone.

  ‘He finds it all very hard,’ Mum confirms. I tell her to shush and turn back to the TV.

  ‘Take me back to that night. The night on the train. Where had you been previously to that?’

  ‘I’d been on a date and I was heading home,’ I say back to him.

  ‘You look lovely on TV darling, I always said you should be in front of the camera, not behind it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, now please be quiet,’ I snap.

  ‘Did you deliberately have sex with that man with the hope of getting pregnant?’ Damien asks me.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Mum.

  ‘No, I didn’t. Now, please can we talk about me on the train?’

  Oh fuck, they left that in? The bastards, I didn’t think they would leave that in. I thought if I kept saying it they would have to leave it out. But no.

  ‘I’d really like to just talk about the masturbating part, please,’ I say to Damien, again.

  ‘How does it feel to have the public judge you in this way?’ he continues.

  ‘Please can we talk about me on the train,’ I say, looking more annoyed.

  ‘Mum, no, I didn’t just keep saying that. There is more about Nick, and how I didn’t tell him. And I get snappy and say I don’t feel sorry for him. They can’t just leave that out?’

  Mum passes me more popcorn; I shove it away with my hand.

  ‘You must deeply regret what you did?’ Damien asks.

  And this is maybe the worst bit so far, they don’t even air my answer, just the weird, creepy smile I did after I said, ‘I wish I had waited until I got home.’ Which I absolutely remember saying, because I thought it was quite funny.

  They cut to the clip of Adam, and his squirmy, chubby stupid little face makes me want to kick the TV. He makes me sound vicious and nasty and cruel. All because I picked him up on the hidden sexuality that he seriously needs to just admit to.

  ‘Oh, was that Adam?’ Mum says. ‘He’s not what I imagined. He’s quite handsome isn’t he?’

  ‘Shush, Mum, please!’

  ‘Tara,’ Damien says, ‘is there anything you would like to say?’

  Here it comes, my brilliant line about the orgasm. At least I’ll end on a high note.

  ‘I’d really like to just talk about the masturbating part, please,’ I say.

  Nooooooo!!!

  I get up and scream at the TV and hurl a handful of popcorn at it. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I say, forgetting who I am with.

  ‘Language, Tara, please.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, what does it matter? You tell kids not to swear so people don’t think they are trashy; well, everyone already thinks I’m trashy, so what is the point in not fucking swearing?’

  She has nothing to say to that.

  I can’t believe this is happening. What did I agree to go on TV for? I didn’t have sex with David Beckham or the future king of England, I had a quiet wank on a grotty tube, it should never have turned into this. Why did I think anyone would impr
ove their opinion of me by selling my soul to TV? I should know better than that! I said nothing of any value, I got slammed by my ex-boss, I looked angry, resentful, a bit crazy and now I’ve only seen to it that this story gets bigger and bigger. It’s just a matter of time until ‘Please can we talk about me masturbating’ is printed on t-shirts and a bestselling ringtone. WHY did I do it? I throw myself back into the sofa and aggressively eat popcorn.

  ‘I’m ruined. That’s it. I might as well move to Spain and work in a bar. At least if everyone was speaking about me in Spanish I wouldn’t understand what they were saying. I miss my life.’

  ‘You miss your life, really?’ says my mum, angrily, slamming a bowl onto the coffee table. ‘The life you moaned about constantly? The boss you hated? The misogyny in that office? That bloody awful Sophie who you insisted on being friends with your whole life, despite her being terrible to you? You miss how little you used to see Annie? How your main social life was me and your dad? What do you really miss about that, Tara? Tell me?’

  ‘Mum, don’t shout at me, I—’

  ‘I might not be the most forthcoming of mothers, but I did not raise you to let the world beat you down. You have fought judgement ever since the day you had Annie, and I stuck by you and we never let anyone tell us that our way was wrong. Now you’re just going to allow people to make assumptions about who you are and run away with your tail between your legs because you can’t be bothered to fight back? Is that what you want Annie to learn from all this? Really? Get a grip of yourself and find a way to get your life on track that doesn’t involve hideous tabloid news stations and sleazy male journalists with terrible hair.’ She storms off into the kitchen.

  I was not expecting that. After a few moments, I follow her.

  ‘Mum?’ I say, putting my arms around her. ‘Your popcorn was perfect.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, and I hug her. After a few minutes, my dad comes back downstairs and joins in. As the three of us cling onto each other in the kitchen, I wonder if I can cling onto any hope. My mother is right; my life wasn’t perfect. And if I am honest with myself, I actually don’t miss it.