‘I suppose I could give it a go. You could maybe edit it a bit for me, make sure I haven’t said anything stupid, or spelt my own name wrong or anything?’
‘Of course, we will get it perfect. What do you think?’
‘I think yes, OK, why not?’
‘Great! Don’t follow the herd,’ Cam says, holding her half full glass up to meet mine.
‘Don’t follow the herd,’ I repeat, letting them clink together.
‘Will you be OK tomorrow? Do you have someone to pick you up, I could if not?’ I ask, knowing the abortion is what she wants, but hoping she has someone to take care of her.
‘Yeah, my mum and dad are going to take me. Which is lovely of them but also so weird. Thanks though.’ She finishes off a plate of nachos by scooping way too much cheese and guacamole onto one chip. ‘You could come over the following night though, if you like? We could discuss your piece, have pizza. I dunno, just hang out?’
‘I’d love that. Sure!’ I say, slipping on my leather jacket, and wishing away the next two days so I can see my friend again.
As we wait for our taxis, we swap numbers and she texts me her address. We hug as we say goodbye, this time it’s much more relaxed. As my car drives away, I feel the huge gap in my life begin to fill up.
Cam
In the cab on the way home, Cam hangs her head out of the back window to stop feeling sick. When she’s sure she’s OK, she winds the window up a bit and gets her phone out of her bag. Scrolling through her emails, she finds the latest from Stella, the one outlining her plan to get pregnant by her boss, and forwards it to Tara with a note.
Loved tonight. It’s made me realise how much I need someone like you in my life. I think maybe I am a bit lonely, although I’d never say that out loud. Sorry if that’s cheesy, but it’s true. Sleep well, write something for me tomorrow and let’s just make this happen. Don’t follow the herd … I love it!
Cam x
P.S see below, have forwarded email from that girl that’s trolling me. I think you’re right, she is just crazy!
When the cab pulls up, she rushes to the front door. She can’t wait to get into bed. One more sleep until this is over.
As she puts her key in the lock, she hears the footsteps of someone running up behind her. Before she can open the door, he is so close she can hear his breath.
‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’ she screams, spinning around and using her key to stab him in the face, a trick her dad taught her that she never thought she’d use. The man bends down, pressing his hand into his cheek.
‘Fucking hell. Fuck. Why did you do that?’ he says, and Cam realises it’s Mark.
‘Jesus, Mark. It’s you. Why did you sneak up on me like that?’ she says, going to help him, but he pushes her hand away.
‘Because you have been ignoring me for days. You won’t answer the door, you won’t answer my texts. I just want to talk to you, OK?’ He wiggles his jaw from side to side and presses his hand against his cheek. He’s clearly in agony. ‘I’ve been waiting here for ages, where have you even been, you never go out?’
‘I was with a friend.’
‘A friend?’ says Mark, making presumptions that irritate Cam.
‘Yes, a friend,’ she says stroppily, then checking herself. She brushes over his jealousy. She’s really hurt him. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I was being mugged or something.’
Mark checks his hand for blood, there is a little bit but nothing too awful. It could have been a lot worse. They both relax a little physically.
‘Oh yeah? Which bit are you sorry about, breaking my heart or breaking my face?’
‘Your face, Mark. Jesus! Don’t say that.’
‘Say what? Anything emotional?’
‘I didn’t break your heart. Be fair,’ Cam says defensively. ‘I know you want kids but there is no need to make this more dramatic than it is.’
‘“More dramatic”? What did you think this was, Cam?’ he asks, like a proper grown-up and not the kid she’s always treated him as. ‘What do you think happens when two people have a relationship like this, where do you think it goes?’
‘I don’t know where it goes, it’s not about a future is it? It’s about two people, getting what they need out of each other.’ She realises that sounds harsh. ‘In a nice way, obviously.’
‘God, you can be so cold. If you don’t want the baby, that’s your choice, I won’t make you keep it. What kind of guy do you think I am?’
‘Wow, I suppose I just … hadn’t thought this was about us, I just thought it was about the baby,’ she says, guilt stabbing harder than any attacker on her doorstep could have managed. He isn’t going to try to make her keep the baby?
‘Of course it’s about us. Why do you think I’ve been here at the drop of a hat every time you’ve asked me to be? You’ve never come into my life, or even really asked about it, but I dealt with that because I see who you are. I see that you need your space, your own life, and I respect that. But then you get pregnant and you don’t ask me anything, you just tell me what you want, what is right for you, and you don’t even give me the chance to tell you that I’d do whatever makes you happy. Keep it, or not keep it. Because I love you.’
‘Mark, you don’t love me. Stop it. We can talk about stuff without being silly.’
‘No, I do. I love you. I’ve never met anyone like you. You live the life you want to live and even though I want to be in it more, I think that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t want you to change, or be anything you’re not. I just want you to be mine, whatever that means for the baby. I just want you to be mine.’
Cam feels winded, guilty, and quite uncomfortable. These high-octane emotional outbursts are not how she works. She doesn’t cope well with people putting her on the spot like this; she needs time to think about responses to statements like that. He loves her? Where did that even come from?
Rather than give herself a minute to think, she says the things she is preprogrammed to say.
‘Mark, look, I’m sorry but that’s not how I feel. I didn’t realise you felt that way and if I had, maybe I’d have been more sensitive towards it. But I’m not, I don’t … I’m not looking for a relationship out of this. I’m sorry.’
Mark looks devastated. He’s losing the power to keep begging.
‘I’m going to go upstairs now, because I am tired and I have a procedure tomorrow that I am nervous about. Go home, Mark. Get some sleep. I’ll let you know how tomorrow goes.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes, Mark, I promise, OK?’
She turns slowly away from him. He doesn’t move. Cam puts her key in the lock, opens the door and goes inside. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, as still as she can for around thirty seconds, until she hears his footsteps disappear down the path.
He loves me? she says to herself, walking slowly up the stairs. He just called her cold, but a warm glow is burning deep inside her. What is it?
As she climbs up the steps to the door of her flat, that glow turns into a heat she can’t ignore.
‘Wait, Mark,’ she shouts, a change of heart spinning her round too quickly for the narrow stairs. She loses her balance and reaches for the bannister but her grip doesn’t hold. Paralysed by the shock of knowing she will fall, her body smashes onto every step. Her neck snaps as she lands heavily in a heap, squashed hard against the front door.
She is killed instantly.
15
Tara
Lying in my bed, I can barely breathe as I read the email from Cam over and over.
But it isn’t what Stella Davies said that’s making me lose control of my lineaments, it’s the signature at the end of her email.
PA to Jason Scott @Jason Scott Photography.
The crazy cow has been trolling Camilla from her work email. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t believe this. It’s like the planets have aligned but then shoved me to the edge of a black hole.
My date with Jason feels like a diffe
rent person walked into that bar, a lifetime ago. What bizarre and cosmic force is pulling me back into his world?
I want to tell him about this email, but how can I? He quite clearly told me he wanted nothing to do with me, I can hardly text him and say, ‘Hey, me again. Look, this is a bit random but I think your PA is trying to steal your sperm.’ I could call him, but he’d probably not answer. But I can’t let this happen. I mean, this is just wrong. I know Jason wants kids; fathering a child he doesn’t even know about could be really, really devastating for him, if he found out. I can’t be the one to tell him. But then, how can I ignore this? Maybe I’ll email him. But she’s his PA; what if she reads his emails?
I have to do something, but what? Maybe it’s none of my business and I should just stay away, but my gut is telling me I can’t do that. I liked this guy, I don’t want this to happen to him. I text Cam.
Wow, you’re not going to believe this, but I know Stella Davies boss!
She doesn’t reply, maybe she’s already asleep. I don’t text again; I don’t want her waking up to my dramas when she’s facing an abortion. Maybe I’ll leave something for her while she’s getting it done, something nice for when she gets home. I’m sure she said it’s at two p.m. I’ll get a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, she said she can’t stop thinking about them. I know she was trying to resist but it might at least make her laugh after a grim day. Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll do something nice for my new friend.
With that thought, I turn off my light, and fall asleep.
I’ll decide what to do about Jason tomorrow.
Stella
I nearly choke on my roasted vegetable and brown rice salad as I read my newspaper. I clear my throat with a glug of cough syrup. Camilla Stacey, dead? What?
I grab my phone, almost every news website has written about her. They start with sympathy for her death but almost all move on to lambasting her for lying about not wanting kids.
The Face of Childless Women was pregnant. So much for the crusade …
Camilla Stacey is being publicly shamed but is too dead to stick up for herself. I can’t stop shaking, I feel like if I let myself, I could cry and never stop. But why am I sad? I didn’t know her.
But maybe she knew me. Did she ever read my emails? I’ll never know now. This is so surreal. I feel like a friend died, but a friend I didn’t like. I don’t want to write big sad messages on Facebook about it, like all Alice’s friends did about her. But I feel like I’ve lost something. I confided in Camilla Stacey, whether she read it or not. Was I too mean? Did she die sad because of me? It’s really stressing me out. But I mustn’t get stressed; it’s bad for fertility apparently. But this is impossible not to think about.
And she was pregnant? Trust Cam, with her perfect life, to end up having a baby too. But then, I guess her life isn’t perfect, not any more. I think about that baby, dead too. How horribly unfair. And in some strange way, I feel an extra connection with Cam because today the ovulation test gave me a flashing smiley face, meaning that I have ‘high fertility’. That likely means that tomorrow it will have just a smiley face, meaning my chances of getting pregnant are at the highest peak. Just one more day to go, and my plan will come together.
Tara
The smell of doughnuts fills the tube carriage. I can even smell them through the scarf that I have subtly draped over my head. I’ve obviously gained a little confidence, because I braved the journey with my hair down, but I couldn’t bring myself not to cover my face. Especially because the smell of doughnuts was radiating from my lap and people kept looking over at the box, obviously being as tempted by the smell as me. I think about having one, but I could hardly leave eleven doughnuts on Cam’s doorstep, could I? Everyone knows you buy six or twelve, I’d just look greedy. Or maybe she’d think it was funny.
NO, Tara, you cannot eat one of Camilla’s Get Well Soon doughnuts!
I feel so good about this. It’s three p.m., she’ll be at the clinic now and I’m going to leave them for her for when she gets back. I considered if it was insensitive, seeing as she was having a pregnancy craving and by the time she gets home she won’t be pregnant any more, but I think Cam is more resilient than that, and hopefully she’ll treat herself to one after this pretty intense ordeal.
I follow Google Maps to her road, careful not to drop the box and ruin my lovely surprise. This will be the first of many thoughtful gestures we do for each other, I am sure. This is what real friends do. They don’t bog off to Bora Bora in your time of need, what they actually do is drop doughnuts off without stealing any for themselves. As I get to what looks like her house, I am told to step back by a policeman who is on the other side of some yellow tape. There are lots of people around. Police, paramedics, news cameras. Number 11, which I am sure is Cam’s house, is completely sectioned off. I must have got the wrong road. I check the address with the policeman.
‘Yup, that’s it,’ he confirms. ‘Step back, please.’
I stare at the front door. I can’t see in because there are so many people. There’s a woman, around seventy years old, with her hands over her mouth, approximately ten feet from the front door, looking in, and silent from shock. A man, around the same age – her husband? – is comforting her, but he can’t do it. He falls to his knees and sobs with such volume that the air fills with his grief.
What is inside that door?
A paramedic appears on one end of a stretcher. As it emerges, I see that a body is covered from head to toe under a white sheet. Then I see the second paramedic holding the bed at the head end. They both guide it towards the back of an ambulance.
Who is on that stretcher?
I look at the front door. Number 11. Where is …
‘CAMILLA!’ shouts the woman, suddenly, running hysterically towards the ambulance. The man jumps to his feet to stop her, and they both fall down again, grief overwhelming them as they realise they are helpless.
I drop the box of doughnuts on the ground.
Sitting on the sofa between my mum and my dad, I can’t take my watery eyes off the TV as the news about Cam’s death breaks. I watch the newsreader, in her pink blouse and perfectly straightened hair, as footage of the scene I was at this afternoon plays in a small box next to her head.
‘Camilla Stacey, “The Face of Childless Women”, found dead at her home’ runs across the rolling news headlines at the bottom of the screen.
The small box turns to a full screen, and a journalist at the scene speaks to camera. It’s now dark, but the yellow tape flickers behind him, the front door of number 11 is still open, but the ambulance has gone.
‘At around one p.m. this afternoon, blogger and renowned feminist activist, Camilla Stacey, was found dead at her home. It’s unknown yet what the cause of death was, but police are currently saying there is no sign of foul play. Ms Stacey was found dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs by her mother and father, who had come to pick her up to take her to lunch, they told police. Paramedics who arrived at the scene say she had been there for a number of hours, and that she would have died instantly from a fatal break of the neck, most likely late last night.’
‘This isn’t real,’ I say, biting my thumbnail, my top lip quivering.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ says Mum, sitting next to me.
‘But she was fine, we were just together last night. How can this happen?’
The journalist continues speaking.
‘Camilla Stacey had an enormous fanbase, and although tributes are flooding her Twitter feed, there is also a lot of confusion. Ms Stacey built a lucrative career out of her childfree lifestyle, and her fans have been shocked to discover she was actually nine weeks pregnant. This has left her loyal followers torn by what some people are saying to be an “emotionally corrupt money-making scam”. Ms Stacey’s main sponsor, L’Oréal, have made this statement.’
A graphic appears on screen.
‘We are of course devastated by the news of Camilla Stacey’s passing. We were always huge s
upporters of her blog www.HowItIs.com. However, we feel it important to say that as a brand we do not endorse, support or approve of misleading our customers.
We were shocked to hear about the pregnancy, and would like to assure everyone that we were not involved in any kind of deceit. We are looking to have all branding removed from the website, and our sponsorship will end here.
Samantha Byron, Head of Sponsorship, L’Oréal.’
‘Of course it ends there you retard, she’s dead!’ I shout, so angry my teeth grate together.
‘OK, Camilla, please, watch your language, that word is not OK,’ says my mother, rushing to close the living room window in case Mrs Bradley heard me use the ‘R’ word.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I just can’t believe it. This can’t be right. She was brilliant, Mum. And yes, she was pregnant but she was booked in for an abortion today. I was taking her doughnuts.’
I drop my head into my hands and they are soon full of tears. This makes no sense. She was my friend.
‘I’d never met anyone like that before. She was so fearless, so through and through herself. She was everything she set out to be and more. People like Cam can’t die,’ I say, trying to make sense of this.
‘She sounds a bit like you,’ Dad says, putting his arm around me. ‘I’m not surprised you got on. She’s lucky that she spent the last night of her life with you, love,’ he says, squeezing me tightly. He’s still wearing the jumper I pretended to knit him. I smile at him as I start to cry again. He shuffles up close and I realise how much a daughter needs her dad sometimes.
Mum sits to my other side and turns off the TV, and the three of us sit in a line on the sofa. They both rub my thighs and pat my back as I bawl with devastation at the death of my friend. When my head is empty of tears and aching from the pressure of my grief, I tell them I need to go to bed.
Helping me into my room, they tuck me in and kiss my head, just as they did when I was a little girl.
The Cows Page 31