by Zoe Deleuil
I waited for her to include me, but she and the girl chatted on, playing with the babies, and I sat to one side feeling irritable and left out.
‘So where was he born?’ the young girl asked.
‘Homerton. And Albert, where was he born?’
‘UCLH. It was so busy there. And when is his birthday?’
Rachel said nothing.
‘The fifteenth of December,’ I said, leaning in and smiling at her.
She looked confused. ‘Oh, he’s your baby?’
‘Yeah.’ I could see her reorganising their conversation in her head, smiling uncertainly at me as Rachel gently stroked the baby’s cheek with her thumb, ignoring both of us.
‘Should we get out soon, Rachel? He’s probably ready for a feed and a sleep.’
As we stood up, the girl’s brothers gathered round the baby, all three siblings focused on him, adoring him, trying to make him smile. Finally he did, and they all cooed in encouragement.
‘My God,’ whispered Rachel. ‘That mother can’t have been older than about fourteen. It’s so sad, isn’t it? That she was allowed to keep him.’
‘Maybe she’ll be a good mother, though. She seemed good enough. And she had two little helpers.’
‘Teenagers aren’t fit to be parents,’ she said, then stalked off to the change room.
The baby was hungry, opening and closing his mouth at me and chewing the air, so I fed him on the change room bench still in my bathers, using the towel as a shawl. Beside me, Rachel stood completely naked, rubbing cream into her arms. It was hard not to look – she was completely in her own world, unselfconscious, her body so flawless it belonged in some airbrushed movie, not this grim council changing room, where long hairs tangled under the plastic mats and the air was thick with cheap spray deodorant and fake-apple-scented shampoo. Again I noticed the tiny lettered tattoo on her inner arm.
I packed the baby into the pram and said to Rachel, ‘I’m going to get dressed in the cubicle.’ My own body felt so ungainly in comparison to hers, I didn’t want anyone seeing it.
When I came out, an older woman, dressed in plain black bathers, a white towel around her waist, approached me.
‘It’s nice to see a mother breastfeeding her baby,’ she said quietly.
Rachel raised her eyebrows and looked at me as if the woman was crazy, but I knew what the woman meant. I had vivid memories from childhood of being mesmerised by breastfeeding mothers, of their milky breasts spilling out of dresses on visits to the homes of more bohemian school friends. Or of my baby cousin, still and quiet under a lacy white blanket, my aunty looking down at him, unsmiling but not stern, simply absorbed. Afterwards, I’d pretend to breastfeed my own doll, assuming the same serious expression.
‘Thank you.’
There existed a quiet, invisible network between women, I was discovering, where supportive words were expressed in undertones, quickly, between one errand and the next, from one stranger to another.
21
A week later my ‘keeping in touch’ workday arrived, and I dressed unhappily, knowing there was nothing I could wear that would hide my heavy, aching body that still hadn’t healed fully. The body of a mother. It was such an old-fashioned, martyr-ish word. So not edgy. Nothing you’d put in Dove Grey, that was for sure. We did feature babies sometimes in photo shoots, but only in soft focus, as a pale, floral-draped ornament in some glamorous person’s house, playing with a Danish wooden truck on a polished concrete floor or something. Most of the younger editors I’d come across had no children, including Christine, the deputy, and I’d seen the disdainful way she treated Anna, the features editor, who had two small daughters. I had no idea what those little girls were called, I realised, with belated guilt. She never talked about them at work.
Rachel was still sleeping when it was almost time to leave. I knocked on her door softly, then opened it a crack. She was lying in bed, the blinds down, and I could hardly see her in the dark room.
‘Are you getting up? I have to go into work soon. Are you coming?’
She groaned and I heard her climbing out of bed. ‘Can you leave him here? I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
‘Oh, I can’t really. What if he gets hungry? I didn’t manage to express enough milk.’
‘Can he have formula? I could take him to the supermarket and get some?’
‘Ah, no, not really. I don’t know if he’ll still take a bottle.’
‘If he’s hungry he will.’
‘I’m kind of trying to exclusively breastfeed him again,’ I said, knowing how precious it sounded.
‘Ooh, exclusively,’ she laughed. ‘Okay, well, I’ll get in the shower.’
‘We have to leave in about fifteen minutes, though.’
‘Okay, fine. I’m getting up.’
We left the house later than I would have liked because Rachel took so long getting dressed. I was aware that she was doing me a favour by agreeing to come, so I was hesitant to tell her to hurry.
A wave of nervous nausea hit, and I swallowed and closed my eyes, the bus rumbling along Clerkenwell Road. One of the old Italian diners had been done up, I noticed. The battered tables and pale green walls had been replaced with a Nordic plywood interior, white pendant lights and sleek bench seating. I would mention it to our food editor, if I saw her. That was the kind of stuff she took very seriously. Personally, after two years of working with the food department, I was never more in favour of baked beans on toast with a mug of tea. Taking cooking as seriously as our food writers did was surely a sign that we had become decadent beyond rescue. I’d read somewhere that dinosaurs, towards the end of their time on earth, had become over-specialised and ridiculous-looking, with strange adornments and extravagant horns. Maybe food journalism was the Homo sapiens version of pointless frills. Perhaps in a thousand years, if humans still existed, historians would look back at our era and talk about how we became obsessed, spoiled, over-nourished. How we ate only the best parts of animals and threw the rest away, flew asparagus all over the world in planes; how we didn’t merely eat food for energy, but began to watch shows about it on television and write about it endlessly in books and magazines and on websites. And how, in fact, the day that an adult human wept on a reality TV show, because she had oversalted a risotto bianco and was being sent home, marked the beginning of the end of humankind as we knew it.
Already I was feeling tense, and we hadn’t even arrived yet. As if reading my mood, the baby began to fuss in his pram, and I lifted him out and tucked him under my coat, leaving Rachel to hang onto the pram.
People were tumbling off the bus and onto the gum-stained wide pavements of Oxford Street, and we followed them, past the tourists with their empty suitcases sitting outside Primark, and turned down the side road into the quieter streets of Mayfair and past the security guard, through the dirty glass doors of the dingy brown brick building that was the unlikely home of Dove Grey. The whole building was a musty warren, and I’d got lost a few times when I first joined, because all the floors looked the same: tired, dark and claustrophobic. It all made sense when someone told me the building was originally a multi-level car park, before its realestate value rose too high and it was converted into office space.
‘So maybe you can wait here in the lobby – I shouldn’t be too long,’ I told Rachel. ‘You could take the baby for a walk if he gets restless. Grosvenor Square is down there.’
‘Okay. We’ll go for a walk, I guess.’ She seemed irritated.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
She pushed the pram towards the exit and I was torn for a moment between following the baby and returning to my old working life, which seemed at that moment very foreign.
The mirrored lift full of immaculate colleagues confirmed my suspicion that I should have done more than slap on some foundation and mascara and run a comb through my hair. But I was already late, so I made my way to the Dove Grey editorial area, saying hello to people as I passed the various magazines, which were divided
up by carpet-covered partitions and bulging filing cabinets.
It was weird being back, the familiar sounds of the phone ringing, the printer churning out proofs and someone laughing in the marketing department, yet it all feeling so different. Samuel, the fashion director, was at his desk opposite mine, and in the midst of an icy discussion with Thea, the art editor. They nodded and said hello, then continued talking as I tried and failed to get into my email account. I flicked through some mail while eavesdropping on them. Thea, who wiped the floor with me on a regular basis, was always exceedingly deferential to Samuel. It was a cycle of abuse, really, because she took his aggression without a murmur, then promptly dumped it on me.
‘I came over to see how you are, Samuel. After the misunderstanding with Evelyn.’ Her voice was low and gentle in a way I’d never heard her use with anyone else, like a doctor giving very bad news. She looked fabulous, as always. Hair in an artful bun. Thin silver hoops in her ears. Rust-coloured lipstick. Smokey eyes, matt skin. A black draped dress printed with tiny lime-green budgerigars hanging off one shoulder.
He barely looked at her, and over the low barrier that divided our desks I could see his lips were clenched into a thin line. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it with you.’
‘Well, I wanted to explain to you that the deadline was an hour away, we still didn’t have the prices, and I decided that the best thing was to contact her directly.’
Samuel took a long, controlled breath. Around them the office had fallen silent in the way that offices do when this sort of interesting conversation takes place. I wondered how the baby was doing; if he was crying. The office was always so overheated, and I felt my face begin to prickle.
‘I am her contact. She only talks to me. I was speaking to her from Sardinia at the same time as you, pretending I was in the office, and your email made it clear that I was lying to her.’ He snapped out each word in a clean little burst, like shot pellet.
‘Well, I’m so sorry about this. It’s a … terrible situation.’
‘The thing you have to realise is that she’s not a very nice person. She’s tricky, and I know that, and now I’m going to have to try to sort it out.’
There was a pause. Thea gave it one last shot.
‘And the thing you have to realise is that we had an hour to the deadline and you weren’t answering your phone.’
The entire office held its breath, waiting to see how Samuel would take it.
‘Well, yes, I do realise that,’ he said in a bored voice, before delivering his final line. ‘It’s just that I thought the email you sent her was somewhat rude, and rather poorly worded. So there’s that.’
Poorly worded. No greater insult.
She stood speechless for a long moment.
‘Sorry!’ he called as she turned her back on him and walked away. ‘But it’s true!’
I cleared my throat. ‘Hello, Samuel.’
‘Oh. Back from the lying-in hospital, are we? How are you? Safely delivered?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Little boy. Thomas.’
‘Lovely. I don’t need to see a photo, but congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘God almighty,’ he said, flicking through the latest issue. I peered over to his desk, where a double-page spread showed a burly, tattooed celebrity chef standing bare-chested in front of a platter with a juicy piece of roasted meat on it. ‘Andy looks like he’s about to rape that hogget. Does it need to be quite so literal?’
This job is pointless, I suddenly realised. This job is completely and utterly pointless.
All we did was create obsessively styled pages that sold people things they didn’t need, often to placate our highest-paying advertisers, in between expensive advertisements that also sold people things they didn’t need, and didn’t know they didn’t need until they bought the magazine. How had I done it for so long? How could I ever unsee how pointless it all was and come back here to work? It had only been a few weeks since I’d left, but maybe a small break from the relentless forward momentum of a monthly production schedule was all it took.
My phone pinged. Rachel. He’s crying. I don’t really know what to do? Will you be much longer?
I texted back: Maybe try giving him some milk? I had expressed some last night, sitting in front of the TV like some listless cow, wincing in pain as the milk trickled into the bottle.
I tried that but he’s already finished it.
I will be out as soon as I can. Try rocking him. I messaged back.
Sweat started to bead across my forehead, my cheeks, began to run down my back, and I imagined her trembling hands, spilling milk. My shirt began to feel drenched like an internal tap had been switched on. Some kind of weird post-pregnancy hormonal freak-out was visiting me right now, on the one day I needed to resemble a normal person. I headed for the kitchen, but bumped into Christine along the way.
‘Hi, Christine. How are you? I was just going to make a coffee if you’d like one?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Look, I was going to have a quick word with you but we’ve got the editorial meeting and you’re a little late. Why don’t you get your coffee and come along to that and we can talk afterwards. How’s the baby?’
‘He’s good. I was going to bring him in but I thought it might be a bit tricky. Another time, though.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled at me absently. ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’
Dismissed, I stopped past Thea’s desk. ‘Thea, would you like a coffee?’
‘I’m detoxing,’ she replied, not looking up from her screen.
That was it for the tea round. Samuel only drank takeaway espresso from Bar Italia and Anna was buried somewhere beneath piles of work, and always made her own drinks anyway.
After downing two glasses of tap water I made a coffee, left it on the counter, then went to the ladies to attempt to sort out my sweating, my frizzy, bus-steamed hair surrounding a flushed face.
When I came back here I’d need to try a bit harder. But right now, it was hard enough getting myself out of bed, let alone being a woman of effortless fashion like my colleagues.
The toilet flushed behind me and Laura emerged.
‘Oh mein Gott, Simone! How are you? What’s wrong – you’re schwitzing like a schwein.’ Laura’s boyfriend was from Hamburg and she spoke a little German.
‘I don’t know. It’s boiling in here. I need to cool off somehow.’ I splashed my face with water, messing up my hastily applied mascara.
‘Where is the baby?’
‘He’s outside with my boyfriend’s cousin. I couldn’t face bringing him in. It was hard enough getting myself here. Look.’ I pulled out my phone and showed her a photo of him sleeping, wrapped in a yellow flannel blanket, his face pointing downward, as fine and pale as a china doll.
‘Oh my God. He’s adorable. Bring him in next time.’
‘I will. How are you?’
‘Oh, not too bad. Had an awesome weekend,’ she smiled, whipping out a hairbrush and raking it through her peroxided bob. ‘Drank way too much though. Green tea and lettuce leaves for the rest of the week. Ready for the meeting?’ She looked at me closely. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit red, and sort of sweaty.’
‘Oh, no. I’m fine.’
‘Maybe put some foundation on before the meeting. You know what Christine is like.’ She gave her hair one last flick and walked out.
Everyone gathered in the meeting room, chatting quietly, until Christine swept in and we all fell silent.
‘We’ve got a double shoot next Saturday,’ said Thea. ‘Urban foraging and Romanian handcrafts. It’s the only time Lock can do it, and he’s a brilliant photographer. I’m going to be there, but we need someone from features to come along, too.’
‘I’m in Cornwall for an Ayurvedic spa review,’ said Christine. ‘So unless it’s urgent I’d obviously prefer not to reschedule.’
‘Milan,’ said Samuel, sounding b
ored. ‘Not that shoots are really my thing, anyway. I think it says that somewhere in my contract.’
Christine looked at Anna, her head tilted. ‘Anything on, Anna? Goat farm? Rhyme Time?’
‘I can’t go on a Saturday shoot,’ said Anna. ‘I promised I’d help my mum pack for her move.’
‘There’s no “I” in team, Anna,’ said Christine sweetly. ‘Does anyone else want to go? Laura, perhaps? It might be handy to have the experience.’
‘Mateo is DJ’ing on the Friday at a club in Leeds, and I’ve promised I’ll be there,’ said Laura.
‘Couldn’t you come back for the shoot?’ asked Christine.
She shook her head. ‘We’ve got something on the next day, too.’ That was Laura-speak for I’ll be catatonic on Saturday. There was a good chance she’d email in sick on Monday morning, too, with one of her ongoing ‘chesty coughs’.
Anna spoke. ‘I suppose I could do it.’
Cigarette smoke drifted in through the open window as someone lit up a sneaky fag on the fire escape. Christine got up, stalked over to the window and shoved it up a little higher.
‘Excuse me? I’m so sorry, but would you mind not smoking outside our window? It smells absolutely revolting. Sorry. Thank you. Thanks.’
She slammed the window shut and everyone sat in silence.
‘While we’re on the subject of fashion, can I bring up something about the illustrations we did of those models, Thea?’ Anna said, her face reddening.
‘What about them?’ Thea replied, in a dangerously flat voice, as Samuel sat up straighter beside her, looking suddenly animated.
‘Their arms, they’re like bones. Emaciated. I don’t think it’s the right message to be sending, particularly for young women.’
‘I’m not taking art direction from editorial.’
‘It’s something to think about, though, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not taking art direction from editorial.’
I cleared my throat, preparing to politely excuse myself, but Christine caught my eye and said she needed to talk to me in one of the soundproof glass meeting boxes that were used mainly for phone fights with boyfriends. Once we were both inside and seated, she told me that she was very sorry but my services at Dove Grey were no longer required.