by Ellery Lloyd
Because the other thing, the main thing, that people fail to understand is that this is work. Hard work. Planning ahead. Knowing when and where and how to mention your brand partners, finding ways of just slipping in references to Pampers, Gap, Boden, as if they’re simply part of the texture of your life, the brand names that come to mind rather than ones who have paid thousands of pounds for a mention. Emmy might split the occasional infinitive, but if you think she’s winging it when it comes to strategy, you are very much mistaken. There are spreadsheets of this stuff, timelines that stretch off months into the future. Possibly years. I suspect there are parts of the grand plan that even I’m not privy to.
And just like everyone else, Instagrammers put on a different persona when they are in professional mode. Just as you would if you worked in a restaurant, or a university, or a school. And when Emmy is at one of these events, she’s at work. She’s making sure the photographer gets the right photos, that all the people who want a moment with her get one (as long as they have something to offer in return, of course). She’s thinking three steps ahead to ensure she doesn’t get stuck talking to the wrong person and that whoever she’s ducking doesn’t even realize (“Bella, you gorgeous creature, you must talk to the fascinating Lucy! I have spent weeks telling you all about each other!”) they’re being ducked. She’s making a mental note, when she meets someone, of that one thing they tell her she’ll remember and that will make them think they really made an impression on her when they meet again—and that will remind her, when they do, of their name. She’s keeping an eye on Coco—or at least keeping an eye on the person who’s been charged with keeping an eye on Coco. She’s keeping an eye on who is talking to who, what alliances are forming, what tensions are beginning to simmer that she might be able to exploit. She’s laughing. She’s joking. She’s talking shop. She’s listening. She is making people feel special.
Sometimes I watch my wife across the room and I am genuinely dazzled by her.
Emmy
Almost as much work has gone into making this day just right as I put into our wedding. The decorations, the guest list, the cake, my outfit—all elements have been considered and reconsidered, every angle fussed over and finessed to ensure that everything is perfectly calibrated for maximum shareability.
I can’t take all the credit, of course. I may be the host, but it was Irene who managed to kick off a bidding war over the sponsorship of Coco’s fourth birthday as the launch of #yaydays. So as well as covering the not-inconsiderable cost of today’s event, a big fashion brand has committed to a forty-thousand-pound partnership selling T-shirts for mums, dads, and kids with #yaydays on the back and #greydays on the front, with a portion of the profits going toward helping women battle the blues.
Irene and I did agonize over whether an event this big, this obviously expensive, would be unrelatable for my followers. But a big brand was hardly going to put their name to carrot sticks and ham sandwiches and musical chairs in a drafty church hall—nor would any other influencers have turned up. We decided the charity angle, and the fact that my darling, bighearted Coco had been so happy that her birthday party could help cheer up mamas who were sad, meant it wouldn’t attract too much bile.
The brand got approval on the guest list and are expecting ten influencers with followings of over a hundred thousand today. My pod is a dead cert, and the rest are hardly a stretch. There’s also a handful of editors and journalists on the list—including Jess, the interviewer from the Sunday Times, whom I make a mental note to personally thank for the gushing profile piece—and a small swarm of micro-influencers.
They scare me a little bit as a group, these minnows, because while I’m impressed at their determination to make it and their commitment to befriending us big fish—all instantly commenting on and liking everything we post, inventing podcasts just to invite us on for an interview—some of them are borderline stalkerish. If one of us gets a new haircut, or a hot pink lipstick, or a limited-edition pair of Nikes, you can guarantee at least three will have done the same thing by the end of the week. It’s one of the reasons that micro-influencers are basically indistinguishable from one another. Thank God Irene sent everyone a personalized #yaydays T-shirt with their name printed on the back or they’d be impossible to tell apart.
Polly is on the list too, as she couldn’t make Dan’s get-together, but was determined to come, to see Coco and meet Bear. In a way it’s surprising, as Polly would usually do anything to avoid a big party. I used to have to twist her arm in our teens, coaxing her into a fancy top and chunky heels and over to whoever’s house while their parents were away. It was much the same in our twenties, to be honest. Although she would usually enjoy it for a bit, she was always the one dragging me out of the door, and occasionally peeling me off the floor after that one last glass had turned into five. But she makes an effort where Coco is concerned.
Still, it was a hard-won battle persuading Irene to waste a valuable invite on a civilian, even one who can still recite my landline number from 1992 off by heart. My agent’s view of female friendship is that if you’ve got something nice to say about someone, say it under an Instagram post, where everyone can read it.
“What’s the point, Emmy? She’s an English teacher who isn’t even on social media—she doesn’t exist, as far as the brand is concerned. And the room can only hold seventy-five.” She sighed, penciling her in begrudgingly at number seventy-six. “We’d better hope someone’s sick. She can’t have a plus one, though,” she added.
She didn’t need one. Her math teacher husband, Ben, has never been my biggest fan, and I doubt very much he’d come even if he were invited. I’m sure he thinks I’m bad for Polly—the fun friend who returned his clever, sensible wife home tipsy and giggling whenever we used to go out. I did vaguely try to get him on my side when they got together, inviting them round for Sunday lunches and suggesting weekends away in seaside cottages, just the four of us. It was clear he was never that keen, and Polly’s excuses got ever more vague and half-hearted.
I have also always had a strong sense that Ben disapproves of what I now do for a living, and Dan has made it quite clear he would rather spend a sunny Saturday afternoon in IKEA than stuck in yet another conversation in which Ben explains in detail one of his hobbies—which include kayaking, bouldering, and Krav Maga—in his deathly monotone. So we don’t see them together often. I don’t see Polly alone much either anymore, truth be told, although she knows she’s still important to me, I’m sure.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a best friend as loyal, or as low-key, as Polly.
After my mother, Polly is probably the person who knows me best in the whole world. Actually, depending on what time of day you ask my mother, Polly may know me better. She never complains no matter how many times she sees two little blue ticks on WhatsApp but gets no response for a week, or I promise to call her back then don’t, or reply to one of her long emails with a couple of kisses. Somehow, she always manages to catch me just as I am heading down the steps to the Tube or about to give Coco her dinner or Bear a bath. Then I ring back later and miss her, or mean to ring back and forget.
I haven’t been a great friend to her recently. I haven’t been a good friend to anyone, if I’m honest. But when your entire income relies on making people you’ve never met feel like you know them intimately, it can be tough to find the energy to keep up with the people you do know. And when your whole thing is opening up, all you want to do in the bits in between is shut down.
The truth is, I have never been one of those people with a long-term gang of close friends. I don’t have a WhatsApp group of girls I met twenty years ago at ballet class or Brownies, who’ve been together through bad boyfriends, nasty bosses, cheap holidays, and cheaper hangovers. I know this puzzles Dan, who’s pretty much had the same gang of five or so close mates since university, all of whom have lived together and been one another’s groomsmen and are godparents to one another’s kids, even if they can’t be expecte
d to turn up to a kid’s birthday party on a Saturday afternoon with less than a week’s notice. The big point of difference, I suppose, is that Dan’s mates are fairly straightforward and his friendships with them simple. They meet, they drink pints, they talk about books and films and podcasts. I can’t imagine any of his inner circle calling him in tears because they’ve been belittled in a meeting, or texting to demand a heart-to-heart chat and a vat of pinot grigio when their marriage is on the rocks. Female friendships, most of them anyway, need nurturing. A lot of nurturing. And I’ve never much enjoyed that. Never been especially good at it, one-on-one.
Perhaps that is why my relationship with Polly has endured so long. She isn’t a drama queen, nor has she ever had any desire to be the center of attention. In fact, that’s probably why we worked as a teenage duo—Polly, quiet and bespectacled and eager to please, dressed by her mum in knitwear and sensible shoes, and me, all Teflon-coated self-confidence in platform trainers and frayed black satin. Very little has changed, bar the trainers.
She’s the first guest through the door at the party, looking every inch the English teacher, in a navy wrap dress, cardigan, nude tights, and ballet pumps. In fact, she looks so much like she’s wearing our old school uniform that I can’t help but smile, especially when I see that she’s clutching a badly wrapped teddy bear with one ear poking through the paper. I make a beeline for her.
“Polly Pocket!” I yell, throwing my arms around her neck. “Thank you so much for coming!”
“Don’t be silly, Ems, how could I not say happy birthday to Coco? I am so sorry I couldn’t make the other party; I was helping out at the school play.” Polly smiles. “But I really wanted to see you, so . . .”
I lower my voice, leaning into her ear. “I just have to deal with some work people, then I promise you’ll have my undivided attention.” I point her in the direction of Dan, who is loitering by Bear’s buggy while he naps. Sometimes I really do feel for him at these things, bored to tears trying to make small talk about engagement figures, impressions, and reach. He got in a right grump this morning, after I suggested he might want to wear an ironed shirt for the photos—I could hear him stomping around and swearing as he wrestled with the ironing board.
He’ll be pleased to see someone he can talk to. Polly couldn’t be more different from the stampede of Instamums in their neon Adidas trainers and denim jackets that pile in behind her a few seconds later. I take a deep breath and start to say my hellos to every single one.
“Tabitha, you legend! Do not tell me you only had a baby two weeks ago. You look incredible!” I say, giving her a huge hug, then realizing her T-shirt, which is emblazoned with her Instagram handle, tabbiesbabbies, is completely covered in her leaking breast milk—and now mine is too. I spot Winter, stationed by the buffet to ensure the kids keep their hands off it all until the mamas get their content, and cross the room.
“Did you bring my spare T-shirts? I’m not sure these giant milk stains scream #yaydays . . . ,” I whisper.
“Oh, shit, Emmy, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot. I can go home and get them?” she says, biting one side of her bottom lip.
“Would you mind? You can jump in an Uber and do a round trip. I’ll book one now,” I tell her.
As she scurries off, I am pleased to see that the selfie mural by the door, with its polka dots, rainbows, and a giant speech bubble with #yaydays written in it, is being preened in front of and posed against by the guests. Nearby, there is a three-tier red velvet cake from which M&M’s will spill once cut, plus COCO spelled out in the giant foil balloons and a unicorn piñata hanging from the ceiling. We also have a wall of bright pink flowers with MAMABARE picked out in yellow roses in the middle, which was my idea. Though now I see it, I have to admit Irene was right—it does look a little bit like a funeral wreath for poor old Gran.
Coco, in her T-shirt and tutu, her outfit accessorized with fairy wings and a fireman’s helmet, is sitting on a sofa in the corner of the room playing with her dolly. I do worry that she might start thinking these sorts of parties are the norm and getting sniffy at her nursery friends’ soft play and pizza efforts, but, generally, my daughter is pretty blasé about the glitzy parties and goody bags. She’d rather be on the swings or putting her teddies to bed.
Once I have done the Instamum honor guard, making sure everyone has their shot and story, I spot Polly again chatting animatedly in the corner to Jess from the Sunday Times. I begin to make my way over, just as my mother arrives. Even late and at the shitfaced end of tipsy, Virginia is perfectly turned out. She’s spent the past week demanding the fashion brand sponsoring today’s party courier a vast selection of outfits back and forth from their London HQ to her mock-Tudor pile near Winchester for approval. She’s also blagged every beauty treatment she can think of (“Darling, what do you think of microblading? Instagram people all have those big, bushy eyebrows. What do you mean, it’s a tattoo? Don’t be silly, who on earth would tattoo their face?”), cold-calling PRs and introducing herself as the mother of “the world’s most important Instamother” with her own following of fifty-four thousand.
The usually unembarrassable Irene actually called to ask if I could have a word, but she knows very well Virginia can’t be managed.
She knows this because she’s her manager.
Instagrans have turned into quite a lucrative sideline for Irene, and my mother has taken to social media like a natural. She doesn’t need the money, but that doesn’t stop her delightedly squirreling freebies like a survivalist stockpiles baked beans, and insisting on discounts for dinners, free nights in spa hotels, and once, memorably, a brand-new Range Rover, by waving her iPhone and demanding, “Don’t you know who my daughter is?” Her dedication is impressive—it makes me sad she’s never had a career to plow this much effort and energy into. With her brains and beauty, she could have done anything she put her mind to, if Dad hadn’t sucked the drive out of her. I’ve always sworn that I wouldn’t waste my life like that.
The irony, of course, is that in many ways, we’re identical. Or at the very least, she’s responsible for my defining characteristics. Dr. Fairs traces almost every personality trait of mine directly back to Ginny and her drinking. Trust issues? Tick. Obsessive avoidance of conflict and confrontation? Yep, that too. And a fear of abandonment and a need to control everything and everyone around me. I guess it’s easy to distill an alcoholic down to their negative effects on the people who love them, but what Dr. Fairs doesn’t see is what a fizzing ball of energy she is, how she can change the temperature of a room, how she draws people to her like toddlers to a tube of Smarties. She can be a complete and utter pain in the arse, but it’s impossible to dislike my mother.
There’s a ripple of excitement among the guests when they realize who this size-six whirlwind of Chanel No. 5 and Chablis is. She’s so busy hamming it up over by the piñata that she doesn’t see her granddaughter come for a cuddle and accidently bats her around the head, sending her flying. Coco picks herself up and dusts herself down, little brow furrowed and bottom lip wobbling. Finally, my mother spots me and comes over.
“Darling! I nearly chose that skirt!” she cries. “Decided it was a bit frumpy in the end. Good God, what are those hideous stains on your T-shirt? Now, where is my beautiful Coco?” She sashays across the room to the flower wall, looks it up and down disapprovingly. “Bit funereal, no?”
“Mum, this is the journalist who wrote the lovely piece about us. And you remember Polly. We were at school together. She was maid of honor at our wedding.”
With some effort, Ginny’s newly microbladed eyebrows knit.
“Oh gosh, yes, Polly. You’ve not changed a bit! Always so pretty—not that you knew it. I used to say to Emmy that you’d be the beautiful one if you just tried a little harder!”
Polly shoots my mother the close-lipped smile I remember well, as Virginia neatly sidesteps a floral-print toddler making a dash for the cake table.
“I am sure children used to be b
etter behaved than this in my day,” she tuts. “Where are your little ones today, then, Polly?”
“Oh, we’re not . . . I don’t actually . . .”
I realize, with a twinge of regret, that I don’t know whether Polly and Ben are trying or not, and am about to change the subject when I spot Irene out of the corner of my eye, with her arm around the brand’s PR. She’s mouthing something at me and gesturing that I should join them. Thankfully, Winter finally arrives armed with my clean T-shirt a second later. I give Polly’s arm a squeeze as I point at the milk stains, which have dried into chalky rings. “Sorry, Pol, excuse me, both of you. Back in a second. Just got to sort this out before we cut the cake!”
When I look for her ten minutes later, she’s gone.
“Christ, what did you say to her, Mother?” I ask, as if I am joking, which I am not really.
Virginia feigns offense.
“What do you mean, what did I say? I didn’t say anything at all. We were chatting away perfectly happily and then Coco came over with her doll and asked if she wanted to play babies and your friend couldn’t get away quick enough. Went barreling off across the room looking like she was about to start blubbering.”
Virginia indicates with a finger the direction in which Polly departed.
I eye my mother narrowly.
“Are you sure you didn’t say something?”
She literally crosses her heart, the wine sloshing dangerously in the glass she’s holding as she does so.