The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  ‘Thanks, I’m not sure it’s hit me yet,’ I say, wondering what the grief will feel like when it really does. Will it be easier because I only met her once? Or harder because I never got to know her as I should?

  ‘It’s really nice to see you again, Tara. I’d started to think it would never happen.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. When you didn’t text back I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t see how I’d got it so wrong.’

  ‘You didn’t get it wrong. Literally as soon as you walked away this arsehole banged into me and I lost my phone. I wanted to text you, but when I eventually got my phone back your number wasn’t there. I guess now we know why. God, she worked really hard at keeping us apart.’

  ‘I presumed you’d seen the video and thought I was a hooker after all.’

  ‘OK, so what is this? This is what I’m not getting. Wank Woman? Stella’s friend mentioned it, I thought it was a TV show or something. It’s you? Is that what you meant when you said you worked in TV?’

  I can’t believe he hasn’t seen it. To think that all this time I have been creating a narrative where he thought I was crazy.

  ‘OK, well my life changed that night, in every way. You got me so horny that I masturbated on the train. When I opened my eyes some creep was filming me and by the time I got to work on Monday I was a global Internet sensation. I honestly don’t know how you missed it.’

  ‘I’ve been on an Internet ban. Now I know why Stella was so militant. Fucking hell.’ He looks sad again, but then his eyes light up and my stomach flips.

  ‘I’m totally watching it now though.’

  ‘No, please. We don’t have to. Watch it another time, not now.’

  ‘Look, today couldn’t get any weirder. I have to watch it at some point, let’s just get it over and done with,’ he says, getting into Stella’s computer which is still on her desk. I try to deter him but then think, if I can sit through watching this with my mum, I can watch it with Jason. At least then it will be done.

  ‘OK, search “Walthamstow Wank Woman”,’ I tell him, cringing inside. This is worse than my dad seeing it.

  When it comes up, he presses play.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he says when it ends, his eyes popping out of his head. ‘Wow, nearly seven million people have seen you masturbate?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘That’s made me feel better about you seeing me … nope, I have no idea how to word what you saw.’

  ‘Aim your penis at your bald assistant’s vagina so she could steal your sperm?’

  ‘Yeah, that. Christ.’

  ‘I think we’re equal. OK, not equal; half the world didn’t see what you did.’

  ‘True, but hey, at least you looked hot. It’s really good to see you again, Tara. I know I only met you once but I really missed you.’

  Is he for real?

  ‘I missed you too,’ I say back, meaning it.

  And then, despite just having watched me do what the rest of the world seems to think is the greatest act of sluttitude imaginable, he kisses me.

  At eight a.m. we wake up wrapped in a huge black curtain in the middle of the studio floor. Our bodies fit together so perfectly, I wonder how it’s possible I ever thought he didn’t care. We drank everything there was in the studio to drink last night, and screwed on everything there was to screw on. God knows what time we fell asleep; I know we talked for hours.

  ‘Fuck!’ I shout, suddenly realising I am a mother and that I live with my parents. ‘Annie!’ I grab my phone and text Mum. I’ve got five missed calls; she must be worried sick.

  Mum, I’m so sorry. I’m absolutely fine. Is Annie OK? I’ll be home soon, sorry sorry xxx

  She texts back right away.

  Ok, love. Just dropping Annie at school. I’ll tell your dad you were with Sophie, shall I? x

  I don’t reply. I am forty-two. All my mother and father need to know is that I am fine.

  Jason gets up to make coffee and I lie back down. I look around his studio. Huge prints of his photographs adorn the walls. I know them all well; I’ve looked at them on his website so many times in the last couple of weeks.

  ‘So, who was Camilla?’ he asks, bringing me coffee, still putting the pieces of all this together. I sit up and rest my back against the wall, he lies down on the curtain next to me.

  ‘Camilla Stacey. She had a blog, www.HowItIs.com. She was amazing, one of those writers who laid herself on the line. People loved her, I loved her, and she died a couple of days ago. She fell down the stairs after I’d been out with her. I still can’t …’

  I put the coffee beside me and cover my face with my hands, and tears just come. ‘She became an icon for women who couldn’t have or didn’t want children, but she was pregnant. She was booked in for an abortion, she told me. But now she’s being held up as some scam artist, a liar and it’s just not true.’

  ‘So you were good friends?’

  ‘Actually it was the first time we’d met. But she’d written a piece sticking up for me and we’d been emailing loads. I felt like I’d known her forever and then that was that, she’s gone. I just wish I could help her like she helped me. But she’s dead, so I can’t.’

  ‘Maybe you can help her. You could write an article sticking up for her? Telling people how she wasn’t going to keep the baby?’

  ‘I can’t write it. Not in a way that would do her justice, anyway. And who would publish it? If I send it to a newspaper they’ll have a field day with it. I’ll get edited to look like a right twat again.’

  I nestle up close to him, lay my head on his shoulder and gently curl his chest hairs around my finger. I can feel his heart beating. I remember something Cam said in an email. How her dad told her to turn life in her favour. ‘Don’t hide, keep your head up and keep your eye out for a way to spin this in a way that works for you.’

  Keep your eye out for a way to spin this in a way that works for you.

  An idea strikes me. Maybe I can help her.

  ‘Hey, does that camera do video?’ I ask Jason, sitting up quickly and pointing at a professional-looking camera that’s on top of a tripod.

  ‘Yup, it does everything. Why? You want to make a sexy film with me?’

  ‘No, I think I’m done doing anything sexual on camera. But there is something I’d like to record. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I get up, put my clothes on, and move a stool between the camera and a white backdrop that is set up in the middle of the studio. I grab my handbag, and in a mirror on the left hand side of the room, I tidy up my hair, put on some foundation, a little blusher, some mascara and some pink lip gloss.

  ‘How do I look?’ I ask him, needing a little reassurance.

  ‘Well, you’ve got sex hair, but you’re gorgeous. What are we filming?’ he asks, turning his camera on.

  ‘My story,’ I say, as I adjust some lights and set up my scene. ‘Camilla said that I could write it and that she’d publish it on her site, but that’s not going to happen now. She made me feel so certain that saying something in my own words was the best way to put this all to bed, and I still think I should do it. But I’m going to do it my way, on film.’

  I take a seat on the stool and ask him to take a picture so I can see the shot.

  ‘OK, who is the photographer here?’ he jokes.

  ‘You are, and I am the documentary maker. Don’t argue.’

  When I see the photo I jump off the stool, drag in another light to make it perfect.

  ‘Are you always this lively in the morning?’ he asks, nervously.

  ‘I have a child. The mornings are the liveliest part of the day. Come on, let’s do this before I chicken out.’

  ‘OK, boss.’ He looks down the lens, then back at me. ‘Perfect,’ he says, clicking record and stepping back. ‘Go for it, Wank Woman.’

  I laugh. I mean, it is funny.

  I straighten my face and look down the lens. Here goes.

  ‘Hi, I’m Tara Thomas, but you pro
bably know me as Wank Woman. It’s OK, you can laugh, that’s what a lot of other people have been doing at me for the last few weeks. Either that or calling me disgusting, perverted or sick in the head. The truth is, I’m none of those things.

  Three weeks ago on a Friday night, I had just been on a date. It was so great that I didn’t want to mess it up with a drunken one-night stand, so I went home alone. Despite my good intentions, when I was on the train I found myself feeling horny, and seeing as the carriage was completely empty except me, I decided to do something about it. If you’re watching this, you know what happened next.

  By 9 a.m. Monday morning I was a global Internet sensation. By Thursday I had lost my job, been arrested (they didn’t charge me) and had such a severe panic attack in my local Tesco that I ended up in hospital. I then did a horrible TV interview on Sky News where I refused to apologise for what I had done, so I got edited to look like a sex-crazed maniac.

  Now I live with my parents again, my child has called me Wank Woman numerous times, and other mums at the school gate think I’m awful. But I’m not awful. So here I am to tell you about who I really am, and what the last few weeks have been like for me.

  They’ve been shit. Really, truly and fully shit. I’ve not only been judged for my actions on the train that night, but also for the way I had my little girl. I had a one-night stand, and I never told the guy I was pregnant, and there are a lot of people out there who think that’s a terrible thing to do.

  But I think it would have been more terrible to force that man into having a child that he hadn’t intended to have. I did what was right for me, my daughter and him at the time. And until the world judged me for it, our situation was absolutely fine. I’m a very good mother, and that is the last time I’m ever going to explain myself about the way that I chose to have my daughter.

  So that’s my story, but there is someone else I want to talk about today too, Camilla Stacey. If you didn’t know Camilla Stacey’s work, then you’ve probably heard of her now because she just died and the media is making her out to be a liar because she wrote relentlessly about not wanting kids, and at the time of her death she was indeed pregnant.

  For the record, to all those people saying that Camilla Stacey was a money-grabbing fake, she was booked in for an abortion the next day. She was everything she ever said she was. And it’s not fair that what happened to me in life, should happen to her in death. She doesn’t deserve to be shamed. To all her fans, be reassured, Camilla didn’t lie to you. She found out she was pregnant late, and she wasn’t going to keep it.

  As for me, I am not taking this any more either. I will not be forced into submission by a judgmental society that is full of hypocrites. I will not apologise because I am a mother, and I certainly won’t apologise because I’m a woman. I would be more ashamed if my daughter grew up to see me destroyed by this, than by her seeing that stupid video of a snapshot of my life that does not, and will not define who I am.

  Thank you for watching.’

  You could hear a pin drop in the studio, as Jason lets the camera roll long enough for him to get out of whatever trance he’s gone into. ‘Wow,’ he says, when he’s ready. ‘That was amazing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling pretty good about it.

  ‘Shit though, isn’t it, that because she’d said she didn’t want kids she was held accountable. Like if she had changed her mind, and did want to have them, that would have been completely unacceptable. I’d hate to be a woman.’

  He’s right, I hadn’t even thought of it like that. Who says a woman can’t change her mind about having kids?

  ‘I can’t believe you’re my girlfriend,’ Jason says, coming over to me on the stool and opening my legs with his hips.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, trying to act cool. ‘You can’t just decide I am your girlfriend and then tell me without asking.’

  ‘You want me to ask you? What is this, the Fifties? OK. Tara, will you be my girlfriend?’

  I suddenly start laughing. The ridiculousness of all this just struck me.

  ‘What, what’s so funny?’ Jason asks, a little offended.

  ‘We have only met twice. I mean, what the hell?’

  ‘Shit, really? I suppose we have. Weird, huh?

  ‘Yeah, weird.’ I kiss him, that doesn’t feel weird at all. ‘Yes, Jason. I will, I will be your girlfriend. Now give me the camera card, I want to get that video out there before I change my mind.’

  I sit at Stella’s computer and log in to my Twitter account. I now have 759,000 followers. As I upload the video to YouTube, I imagine all of those people’s joy when they see that Wank Woman has finally broken her cyber silence. I suppose this could go one of two ways, but what does it matter now if it goes against me? Jason isn’t judging me, my parents love me, and Annie is happy and healthy. I think of Cam, unable to say these things herself, and no matter what is in store for me, I owe it to her to get this out there.

  When the video is loaded, I copy and paste the link.

  ‘OK,’ I say, looking at the screen and exhaling as I type, ‘I am Tara Thomas, and this is my story’ into Twitter.

  ‘Here it goes …’

  ‘Do it!’ says Jason.

  I press SEND.

  16

  Ten Days Later

  Tara

  Wearing a black, sleeveless dress, I sit at my own kitchen table and wipe away the last of my tears. Today was rough. It was Cam’s funeral, and I’ve never seen so many grown people cry in one room. All three of her sisters read poems, her nieces and nephews sang a song, her mother and father, whom I recognised from that horrible afternoon outside her house, held each other and sobbed the whole way through. I snuck in at the back, not wanting to make a scene, but I needed to be there to say my goodbyes to Cam.

  I’m not a religious person, but despite the sadness of her death, since becoming friends with Cam my life has only gotten better. It’s like she gave me something, a piece of herself, that she couldn’t live without. I’ve felt so connected to my own existence since she died; my perspective on everything has changed. I watched Cam’s family in the church and realised that no matter how big your life is, how far you spread your wings, when it comes down to it, it’s a tiny unit that really matters. As long as that is strong, so are you. I have my tiny unit, and I feel pretty indestructible right now.

  It’s been so confusing, knowing that I only met her once, but feeling the sadness I do. But the truth is, sometimes you just love people right away. It doesn’t matter how many times you look them in the eye.

  I log on to Twitter. It’s such a symbol of the frivolity of society. Two weeks ago I was a hated icon of irresponsibility, now I’m a hero for standing my ground. The world flips and changes constantly; the best we can do is remain ourselves. My refusal to bow down has won me the love of a public who tried so hard to destroy me when they thought I was weak. I should hate them, but the positivity is like a drug. I can’t stop reading the tweets.

  The video I made has been viewed by nearly three million people. Now, rather than rape threats, I’m getting marriage proposals. And rather than being slammed as some psycho, I am being hailed as a feminist hero for not apologising for my sexuality.

  But maybe the thing that I am most proud of, is that almost every newspaper that wrote negatively about Camilla has written something to the contrary since my video went live. They had to admit that they were wrong to make assumptions about Cam’s pregnancy, and that she planned to keep the baby and deceive her fans for money. The whole thing has opened up conversations about abortions, cyber abuse, a woman’s right to change her mind. I hope that somewhere Cam is watching it all, because she’d absolutely love the shit storm she created, especially the bit about her being proved right.

  As I scroll through my tweets, allowing the compliments and support to go to my head, one in particular grabs my eye.

  @TaraThomas123 hello Tara, my name is Susan and I work for L’Oréal. We sponsored Camilla Stacey’s blog. Can you DM me y
our email so I can get in touch. Thanks.

  I do it instantly. And within five minutes, an email from Susan Jeffries appears.

  Dear Tara

  Thanks for sending me your email address. I’ve been wanting to get in touch for a few days, but I’m sure the sheer volume of appreciation you are getting on Twitter means you missed my tweets.

  A little about me … I used to be Head of Sponsorship at L’Oréal UK, until I got offered the chance to do the same job in NYC. I took it, but the person doing my job was dreadful (totally unprofessional to say that but she’s gone, so who cares), and they begged me to return. I get back to London next week. One of my proudest brand partners when I was here was Camilla Stacey; I loved her writing and was so happy when she chose L’Oréal to be her primary sponsor. When I heard about her death I couldn’t believe it, I still can’t. We lost a legend.

  I’ve been sitting here mulling over how L’Oréal can continue to promote such a positive attitude to being female, and since watching your video I’ve been trawling through your back catalogue of work. The shows you have made are fantastic, and it’s given me an idea.

  I find myself with a large chunk of budget now available and I’m wondering where best to place it. Tara, would you consider setting up a digital TV channel, sponsored by L’Oréal, where you would produce one-off and mini documentary series, all inspired by real women’s stories?

  I’m sure you are being inundated with offers, so have a think and let me know. I’ll be anticipating your response.

  Best wishes,

  Susan.

  Holy shit! I don’t want to look desperate, so I give it all of thirty seconds before I respond.

  Dear Susan

  Thanks for getting in touch. This sounds very interesting, we should absolutely discuss. Perhaps we should schedule in a meeting?

  Tara

  I send it, then wonder why was I so formal? She basically just offered me my dream future and I am acting like I’m on The Apprentice. I smile and look up. This is Cam again, I know it. I send another email to Susan.