The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  Susan, excuse my previous response to your email. This is how I really feel …

  FUCK, YEAH ‒ I’D LOVE TO!!

  Thanks, Tara!

  Seconds later, she replies.

  WONDERFUL! OK, well I really want you to lead this. It would be good to get an idea of a few stories you would like to cover, just so I can run it past the big guns here and get final sign off. So … any ideas?

  I think for a minute. And then it hits me.

  Susan, I have the perfect subject. Give me twenty-four hours x

  Stella

  I stand in the bathroom with thirty painkillers in my right hand, and a glass of water in the other. I am disgusted with myself. The only thing stopping me swallowing the pills is the thought of what my mother and Alice would say if they knew what I was going to do. If I kill myself and there is such a thing as an afterlife, they’d never speak to me again. I have the chance to live, something neither of them had. The faint nagging of logic is what makes me pour the pills back into the bottle for the third time today.

  The last week has been my darkest. I haven’t even left my front door. I even asked the Tesco delivery man to leave everything on the step, and signed the receipt by having him pass it through the letterbox. I don’t want to see anyone. I’m not ready to face the world.

  What did I become? I look in the bathroom mirror, and see my hair is growing back. I may look like a soldier, but I feel like a victim of war. Dismemberment, or death? Are they really my choices? What a bleak existence.

  The doorbell goes and I freeze. I don’t care who it is. It rings again.

  I push myself into the corner of the bathroom; it feels safer here than the middle of the room. Whoever it is, they are banging now, and calling my name through the letterbox. It’s a woman’s voice. I recognise it. I move slowly out into the hall.

  Tara

  ‘Come on, Stella. I know you’re in there,’ I say, peering through her letterbox, not actually knowing if she is in there. The lights are off, but I sense her inside the flat, in that weird way you know that someone is watching you when you’re asleep.

  ‘Stella, it’s Tara. Wank Woman. Come on, don’t make me say that again.’

  She appears at the end of a corridor, making me jump. She’s wearing a white, off-the-shoulder t-shirt and black leggings. Backlit, with her shaved head, she looks really scary. She has something of the Britney Spears about her, circa 2007. But as our eyes meet I see a hint of genuine fear in her eyes; the same fear I saw in Jason’s studio.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she says nervously, about six feet from the door.

  ‘I have your laptop. I thought you might want it back?’ I say, pleased I have an excuse to talk to her. Jason wanted to keep it as evidence in case she burnt the studio down, or tried to kill him. But I assured him she’d done all the damage she intended to do.

  ‘Come on, it can’t be fun cooped up in here having to read MailOnline on your phone,’ I say, smiling, and move my face up so that she can see my grin through the letterbox. She walks closer to the door, and eventually opens it. She squints as daylight floods over her face, making me question if she has left the house for days.

  ‘Look, if you’re here to have a go at me you don’t need to, OK? I know what I did was wrong,’ Stella says, calmly, but with a strength that tells me she’s taken enough and will slam the door in my face if I say the wrong thing.

  Up close, I can see that she’s tired, her eyes are bloodshot and her skin is shining from a film of grease. That was pretty much me a few weeks ago.

  ‘I’m not going to have a go at you, OK? I promise. Can I come in?’

  She steps aside, and as I brush past her, I feel nervous about her shutting the door.

  We go into the living room and she makes no effort to clear up the mess. There are coffee cups on the floor, and dirty plates with half-eaten pieces of toast on the sofa. It feels all too familiar to me. The Jeremy Kyle Show is on the TV.

  ‘You have a gorgeous place,’ I say, looking around. Despite the mess, it really is lovely. ‘Have you left the house since last week?’ I ask her, taking a seat. She stands at the door with her arms crossed, and I wish I hadn’t sat down.

  ‘No, I have nowhere to go. I saw your video. Talk about turning it around,’ she says, and I think she might be warming to my visit. But then she snaps, bluntly, ‘What are you doing here?’ proving she isn’t.

  I planned to build up to this, but something tells me I might get asked to leave in any minute, so I need to just spit it out. But the smell is making me feel sick, and the lack of light is freaking me out.

  ‘Can I open the curtains?’ I ask her. She nods, shamefaced.

  I get up and pull the curtains open, and also open a window. The fresh air rushes in and I feel some tension leave the room.

  ‘Stella, I have an offer for you,’ I say, confidently.

  ‘An offer? What? You want me to leave the country or something?’

  ‘God, no, I … no, I don’t want you to leave the country,’ I say, surprised she even suggested I would come here and demand that. ‘No, I want to make a documentary about you.’

  She looks instantly enraged. She uncrosses her arms and storms towards me.

  ‘What, do you think I’m some freak show? What the fuck do you mean, a documentary about me?’ Woah, the hair, the anger; I feel like we are being sucked into the TV and Jeremy Kyle’s bodyguard will have to get her off me. Without asking permission, I turn it off.

  ‘Just that. You, your story. I should hate you after what you did but when you made that little speech at Jason’s studio it resonated with me. I haven’t experienced the loss that you have but I understand the isolation, and I get why you wanted a baby. I used to feel the same way; it’s why I had Annie the way I did. You’re right, having a kid is a reason to live. I get it, I think. I mean, the way you went about it was fucking crazy, but I get it. I nearly lost my mind when that video went viral; Annie, my mum, my dad, they are the only reason I kept my shit together. If I’d have been alone, I don’t know what I would have done. I’d probably still be in my flat, cooped up, watching daytime TV, like you are.’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to lose a twin,’ she says, angrily. I persevere.

  ‘You’re right, I have no idea. I can’t even begin to imagine. But I do understand what it’s like to lose a part of yourself. What has happened to you over the course of your life, what you are facing now, it’s a legit reason to go crazy for a bit. I understand why you lost it.’ I pause before I say this again, nervous of potential violence. ‘That’s why I think we should document your journey from here on. The surgery, you rebuilding your life after grief.’

  ‘“My journey from here on”? You want to document me having my breasts and ovaries removed? Oh yeah, great TV, a real feelgood watch.’

  ‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You can talk about what you’ve been through.’

  ‘On TV? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No, I’m not. And actually, it’s not on TV, it would be through my website. We would have control over it, you can say whatever you want. Your struggle is real. I think you could really inspire people.’

  ‘Wait,’ she says, looking less hostile now. ‘Since when did you have a website?’

  ‘Since now. L’Oréal, who used to sponsor Camilla, have said they’ll fund an online channel of mine. I’m going to make short films and mini-series about women who live extraordinary lives. I want to launch it with you.’

  Stella puts her head down. I must have said something that’s upset her.

  ‘I didn’t hate Camilla, not really,’ she says, slowly. ‘It just made me feel better, to make someone else hurt like I was hurting. Her life seemed perfect compared to mine. I got addicted to it, I guess. I’m not proud of it.’

  ‘And I think we should talk about it in the film,’ I say, meaning it.

  ‘Oh yeah right. What would I be, The Face of Trolling?’

  ‘No, because
you will tell the truth as to why you did it. I got trolled so badly and I thought the people writing the messages were pure evil. But now I see it for what it is. You’ve changed how I feel about online abuse, it will never hurt me like it did, because now I get it. The only reason to do that to someone is because of the misery in your own life. My trolls don’t really hate me, their words aren’t real, and I think we can tell that story.’ I walk over to her. ‘I’m not looking to make a programme that vilifies you, Stella. I’m looking to make a programme that shows how life can come close to destroying you, but that anyone can get themselves out of a hole.’

  ‘I read all of Camilla’s articles about not wanting kids again. I think maybe I’ve got a different mindset now, but they made me feel better about it. I’m accepting it, I suppose. I should have read them properly the first time around,’ she says, nervously picking off the remnants of nail polish from her fingernails. ‘I guess in some ways, these programmes could be my legacy?’ she says, looking at me, obviously coming round to the idea. ‘Proof of my life, something to leave behind other than this mess?’

  I nod. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ she says, showing me her smile for the first time since I met her.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll help you get your life back on track, I promise.’

  I stand to leave and she walks with me to the front door. ‘I’ll be in touch, OK?’

  ‘OK. In the meantime, open the curtains, clean the plates. Go for a walk. I’ve done this housebound thing and it’s no good. You’re going to be OK,’ I say. ‘It’s all about making the right decisions, you know, like Cam said. She was right.’

  Stella nods. ‘How’s Jason?’ she asks, looking nervous to mention his name.

  ‘He’s pissed off. Understandably. Oh, and he needs the passwords for his phone and computer to unblock him from the Internet. Can you email them to him? I wouldn’t hold out for a reply though, not yet, but he’ll come round eventually, I think. He knows what you’re going through is hard. I think you probably need to find a new job though.’

  ‘Yeah, I guessed that. I think I need to just focus on myself for a while anyway. I’ll book the surgery, and start with that.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ll get you some money for doing the filming, and you never know, it might be really successful and you end up being “The Face of Boobless Women”. Who knows where that could take you!’ I laugh, then feel sick at what I said. ‘Jesus, I am sorry, that was so inappropriate.’

  ‘No, don’t. I liked it. “The Face of Boobless Women”, it’s got a ring to it.’ She smiles, and the fear in her eyes seems to have gone, at least for a moment.

  ‘OK, I’ll leave you now. I’ll be in touch soon, OK? I’ll get your number from Jason, I’ll call and we’ll talk, yes?’

  ‘Yes. So what’s your website called?’ she asks, a beam of excitement coming from her.

  ‘Don’t Follow the Herd,’ I say. ‘It’s for women who do things their own way. Like us.’

  ‘I like it,’ she says as I walk away.

  I can’t wait to tell Susan we’re on.

  Six Months Later

  Tara

  I’m so excited to tell her, that I call while I’m cooking breakfast.

  ‘Stella, it’s me. I watched the footage, it’s unbelievable. Honestly, the bit where you come around from the anaesthetic and say “How do they look?” is one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen on screen. You’re going to be so proud,’ I say, meaning it.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m nervous to see it,’ she says, but I know she can’t wait.

  ‘Look, it’s surgery, some bits are hard to watch but the way that doctor just whipped out your breast tissue, then slid in your new boob. I mean, it’s just amazing what they can do. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I feel good. I managed a walk today, I got my hair cut. I’m just so relieved it’s done. I wish I’d done it years ago. When does this episode go out?’

  ‘End of next week. The last one has had nearly two million viewers, this one might break the Internet. They love you, they love your honesty. Do you need anything? I can drop in later with some food if you like?’ I offer, not loving the idea of her being alone.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks though. I’m going to go and see Jessica and the baby.’

  ‘Oh yeah, how you feeling about that?’ I ask, worried this could be a trigger for her.

  ‘Honestly? She was in labour for fifty-eight hours, had seventeen stiches in her vagina and anus. I feel like I got off lightly.’

  ‘Ha! That’s the spirit. OK, call me later, love you, bye.’

  I hang up and I drop the phone in the frying pan.

  ‘Mmm, fried phone, my favourite,’ Jason says, coming back from dropping Annie to school. I get my phone out of the pan with a spatula, and put it on a tea towel.

  ‘I messed up the eggs. Toast?’

  ‘They’re not the eggs I’m after anyway,’ he says, kissing me and putting his arms around my waist.

  ‘Don’t forget what the doctor said; I’m old, this could take a while.’

  ‘I know, so let’s enjoy the practising,’ he lifts me onto the work surface, and lifts up my skirt. My phone rings. Still with the spatula in my left hand, I answer it. My hand and ear are now covered in grease.

  ‘Vicky!’

  ‘Oh, hey, boss. So I’ve done pretty well on pinning down that woman you read about in Grazia. The one who was a part of that cult for years and none of her family knew? She’s running her own retreat in the Hebrides, she left the kids with her man in London. She’s really something; I can’t work out if I like her or not. Perfect fodder for DontFollowTheHerd. Thought maybe I could go up and meet her at the end of the week? Wouldn’t mind getting away from the kids, to be honest.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds great. Do it. Good work.’

  ‘Thanks, boss!’

  I offered Vicky a job as soon as L’Oréal sent me the contract. I had to give in and admit that her ideas were really good. She’s actually one of the best researchers I’ve ever worked with. Who knew?

  ‘Sorry, Jason, what were we saying?’

  ‘You were saying you were old, or something really sexy like that.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, as he pulls my knickers off and throws them over his shoulder.

  I drop the spatula on the floor.

  Acknowledgements

  This wouldn’t have happened had it not been for the brilliant Sarah Benton. Having worked together on my last two books, Sarah moved over to HarperCollins and told her new team about me. I then got invited in and offered a two-book deal. I love writing and I’m delighted to be published by anyone, but HarperCollins was always my dream, so thanks Sarah, I hope I did you proud!

  Next up is my editor Kimberley Young. Kim pitched to me with Sarah, and there was an element of ‘if you choose to go with us’ about the first meeting. I may have played it cool, but it took all my efforts not to straddle her and scream ‘YES’ right there and then. Kimberley’s patience over the past two years is something for which I am very grateful. It turns out promising a novel nine months after the birth of your first child is, in my case anyway, a little ambitious. The delivery date (the book’s, not the child’s) moved back and back until I got enough of my brain back to write the book we both love. Thank you Kimberley, if you had been an arsehole about it, this might never have happened. I hope I did you proud too!

  Then to my agent, Adrian Sington, who as always takes great care of me and remains passionate about my work. Thank you thank you!

  And to all at HarperCollins who put this together. From cover design, to PR and marketing to correcting my spelling. What a team!

  OK, now for the personal ones … I’d like to thank every single one of my friends who dealt with me going on and on about the struggles of writing. To those who wanted to go and have fun, but who had to set aside their joy to listen to my anxiety issues. Every moan, every chat, every time I said ‘I CAN’T DO THIS’ got me to the point where I did it. So than
k you. My friends are the best! There are many of you, but a few in particular to mention are … Jo Elvin, Johnny and Michelle, Mel and TJ, Mamrie, Louise, Carrie, Mary Moo and my sister Jane.

  Thanks to all the women who write and think and put themselves out there, it’s so important that we do. I’m not going to write a list of who you are, but I will give a shout-out to Polly Vernon, who wrote her view and then got told to shut up about it. Your book was really useful with putting Cam together, don’t shut up. So on that note, can we all stop telling women to shut up? It’s really great that there are lots of different ways to be a woman, and many ways to feel about being female. We should try to accept them all. Apart from a small few, but again, I won’t list them either.

  And now on to my heart …

  Chris, you’re the best. The best husband, the best dad, the best date, the best mate. You also, very gracefully, handled a couple of my meltdowns, and for that I say thank you. Your support is ridiculous. My love for you is ridiculous. For a big, juicy self-doubting writer, I feel immensely secure because of the life I come home to after a day of pulling my hair out and climbing up walls. Thanks for all of the love and the things and the joy. And of course, for Art … the little nugget that changed my life. Who came out of me so effortlessly (I’m lying) and who turned out to be the best baby ever (that bit is true). Little Art, you gave me less hours in the day to do anything else but you gave me more love than I ever imagined. My little guy. With the best cheeks. I love you so much it hurts, but stop throwing your food on the floor. That shit drives me mental.

  Thanks to anyone I didn’t mention who feels they should have been. These acknowledgements could have gone on for pages. That’s the truth. Writing is a solitary experience in many ways, but very often it’s the support around you that gets the job done. So, thanks!

  About the Author

  DAWN O’PORTER is a novelist, columnist, broadcaster and designer who lives in Los Angeles with her husband Chris, son Art, cat Lilu and dog Potato. She has made numerous documentaries about all sorts of things: polygamy, childbirth, Geisha, body image, breast cancer and even the movie Dirty Dancing. She is the critically acclaimed author of Paper Aeroplanes and Goose.