Having It All (7 page)

Liz paused for a moment, wondering how to go on. Now that she’d jumped, there was so much to say. The words came tumbling out unstoppably, a Niagara of pain and guilt.

‘The truth is I haven’t put my children to bed for three months. If I’m lucky I see them for half an hour in the mornings before Jamie’s arms have to be prised off my leg
so I can go to work.’

She paused remembering the sight of Jamie’s face pressed up against the glass of the front door when she left this morning. He’ll be fine in five minutes, Susie had said, and she
knew he would be. But his face had haunted her all the same.

Steffi looked up from her notebook, concerned that Liz might have changed her mind. This was dynamite. But Liz hardly seemed to notice she was there. ‘I work a fourteen-hour day, and quite
often bring work home. Then there are the broken nights. The truth is I’m exhausted, I’m panicky and I’m guilty as hell. Sometimes when I shut the front door I feel like bursting
into tears.’ She picked up her glass and drank it down. ‘In fact I’m beginning to wonder if taking this job hasn’t been the biggest mistake of my life.’

Steffi watched Liz intently. Claudia would be wetting herself if she could hear this.

‘So what will you do if the job turns out to be too much?’ For once Steffi found herself genuinely interested in the answer.

Liz ran her finger round the rim of the empty glass. ‘Then I’ll just have to give it up, I suppose.’

‘And what does the legendary Conrad Marks think about all this?’

Steffi knew all about Conrad. Claudia had spared her no details of his habits in and out of bed.

‘He doesn’t know.’ Liz felt a sudden shiver of apprehension. ‘Yet.’ And neither, she realized with a shock, did her own husband.

Steffi flipped her notebook shut and gulped the last of her wine. She’d get on to copy from her carphone before Liz had the chance to regret any of this and try and retract.

Liz stood at the door and watched Steffi climb into her specially sprayed shocking-pink Golf GTI. What on earth had she done? And what the hell was Conrad going to say?

The great tide of relief she’d felt at finally admitting a truth that had been crushing her started to ebb away, leaving her with the terrifying feeling that she’d just done
something terminally stupid. But what choice had she had? And wasn’t it time somebody stood up to be counted? So why if she’d just made a brave stand for the working mother did she
still feel that she’d just been stitched up like a kipper?

Liz stood in the hall for a moment taking deep breaths. One. Two, three . . . OK, so she’d come out with it . . . four, five . . . maybe it was for the best . . . six,
seven, eight . . . after all, she couldn’t go on pretending for ever . . . nine, ten . . .
che sarà
and all that . . . keep calm . . . shi . . . it! She must have been round
the bloody bend! And to the
Daily World
of all papers to choose!

She heard David’s key turning in the door. She’d have to tell him what she’d just done. Would he understand? He’d been so pleased about her getting the job. How would he
take it when she told him she’d just put it all at risk?

David edged into the hall, almost tripping over Daisy’s pushchair, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm. For a moment he looked irritated at the clutter, then, seeing her standing
there, he came up and nuzzled her neck.

‘How’s my superstar? You were great on the
News.
’ His voice rang with pride. ‘I loved the bit about the nineties belonging to women. I could have written it
myself!’

Liz closed her eyes. Except that everything she’d said had been a lie. She’d given four interviews today proclaiming the joys of working motherhood. And only one telling the truth.
She took his briefcase and put it down by the mirror. ‘Look, love, we need to
talk
.’

‘Talk later.’ He kissed her neck and started to undo the buttons of her yellow suit. ‘We haven’t even celebrated yet.’ He’d clearly started already.
‘Let’s take the bottle upstairs.’

It was the first time she’d seen him looking relaxed in days. Maybe sex was just what they both needed. It had been ten days since they’d last made love. Wait till after the launch,
she’d mumbled, falling exhausted into bed every night.

For a moment she thought of insisting that they talked now, not later, but she knew that moments like this were precious. As she stood debating with herself one of her mother’s nuggets of
marital advice strayed into her mind: ‘Sex is the engine oil that keeps a marriage running smoothly.’

She’d always loathed her mother’s little homilies. Never Let the Sun Go Down on Your Anger. It Takes Two to Tango. Take Care of the Pennies. Now, to her shame, she found herself
living by them.

Wearily she followed David upstairs. By the time she got to the bedroom he was naked. He came towards her holding two long-stemmed glasses. Gulping back the champagne she tried once more to
talk, to tell him what she’d just done.

‘Not now,’ he mumbled, taking the glass from her hand and putting it on the bedside table.

She started taking off her suit.

‘No. Leave it on,’ he commanded, his breath short and heavy. She could feel his excitement, barely contained now, as he laid her on the bed, roughly pushing the skirt of her suit out
of the way. And just as suddenly he rolled over, lifting her with him so that in one swift moment he was no longer on top but she was astride
him
, her skirt around her waist, still dressed
as she had been for her interviews.

He was more aroused than she had ever seen him. And looking down at him she thought she knew why. It was her success that was turning him on, the thought of David Ward,
working-class-boy-made-good making love to his powerful wife. For a moment she was touched by his naivety, his uncomplicated belief in the fruits of success. She knew it was this that drove him and
gave him his energy. It was his strength. But she worried that it might also blind him to reality, to the fact that there was a price-tag on their success and that she was the one who was paying
it. She and the children.

She looked down into his handsome face as his body shuddered into orgasm and saw that unless she explained why she’d talked to Steffi Wilson a gulf would open up between them. And she knew
that she must talk to him now about her doubts and fears, before he picked up the
World
and read it for himself. Slowly she climbed off and lay beside him.

‘David,’ she said firmly, stroking his smooth back, ‘there’s something you ought to know. I’m not as happy about all this as you think. In fact in the last few days
I’ve been having doubts about the whole bloody charade and I’ve just told Steffi Wilson so. But I had no choice. David, I need you to understand. David?’

She leaned close to him and saw that his eyes were closed and that he was snoring slightly. He had fallen into a deep and contented sleep.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ Conrad flung down a copy of the
Daily World
with such force that coffee spilled out of her cup on to
her desk.

In huge type, across the top of a whole page the headline shouted up at her: EVERYTIME I CLOSE MY DOOR IWEEP, SAYS TV MOGUL.

‘What is this crap?’ he shouted. She’d never seen him so angry, not even when he was ranting on his favourite subject of screwing the unions. ‘I hire you to be figurehead
of Metro TV, a tough, aggressive, confident woman who can carry this company through the nineties and I get this sob stuff about how hard it is to leave your kids. God knows what this will do for
our credibility in the City.’

He mimicked her voice. ‘“If I can’t handle career and family then I’ll just have to give up the job.” What the fuck were you
thinking
of?’

‘It’s the truth, Conrad, that’s all.’

‘So who’d be naive enough to tell the truth to Steffi Wilson? You’re not some little groupie who’s been conned into selling her story to the tabloids, for Christ’s
sake.’

‘I happen to think it’s an important issue.’

Suddenly he leaned towards her. ‘Is it true? This shit about weeping on the doorstep?’

‘Of course it isn’t true. I just said that leaving my kids can be tough sometimes.’

‘Well look, baby, if you can’t stand the heat get back in the kitchen.’

Liz began to feel as angry as he did. ‘I have no intention of going back to the kitchen, Conrad. That’s not the point.’

‘So what
is
the fucking point?’ For a moment they stood, eye to eye. Anger was something Conrad understood and respected. It was male.

‘The point is that you hired a woman because it suited you. You knew that having a woman Programme Controller was good PR. Now you have to live with it. I
am
a woman and I love my
kids. And I’m not prepared to pretend I don’t. But it doesn’t make me worse at my job. Believe me, Conrad, I’m going to make this job work. On my terms.’

Conrad turned and walked out of the room, pausing for a moment at the door. ‘I hope you can, Liz, I hope you can. Now get back to running the frigging company, will you? And don’t
talk to any more journalists.’

He slammed the door.

Thirty seconds later Viv, her secretary, put her head round, smiling in commiseration. She’d probably heard every word through these ludicrous partition walls.

‘
Cosmopolitan
have been on the phone. And
Elle
, the
Daily Mail
and
Hello
magazine. I think you must have touched a nerve.’

She wasn’t going to talk to anyone. She’d made her stand. Now she just wanted to forget the whole thing and concentrate on getting on with the job.

‘Oh and that dreadful Steffi Wilson rang too. She thought you might be interested. They’re doing a follow-up tomorrow. They’ve had so much response they’ve given a double
page spread to readers’ letters.’

Liz dropped her head into her hands. Keeping the issue going was the last thing she wanted. Conrad would go berserk.

‘Have you seen the interview with Liz in the
World
today?’ Melanie Mason sipped her Margarita and looked past her two friends nervously to see who might be
listening.

It had been Mel’s idea to ask Liz’s three best friends to come and celebrate her triumph here at The Groucho Club. As editor of
Femina
, the WorkingWoman’s bible, Mel
liked to keep herself visible in London’s trendy media haunts and there was nowhere trendier than The Groucho. But when she’d suggested it she hadn’t realized Liz was suddenly
going to become so talked about. If she’d known she would have suggested somewhere less packed with sleazy gossip columnists and media groupies.

Mel looked over the top of her huge dark glasses at her two friends. Britt was as sickeningly stylish as usual in a severe black suit with a subtle little necklace made out of giant shards of
coloured glass. Show it to your average street gang and they’d marvel that people in London were paying for broken glass round the neck when they would have been only too happy to supply it
free.

She’d got a new hairstyle too, Mel noted. Her blonde hair had been cut short. God, it actually made her look vulnerable. Amazing how deceptive appearances can be. Britt was the only person
she knew who looked like a woman and behaved like a man.

‘She must be out of her mind, talking like that.’ Britt snapped her fingers at a passing waitress and ordered a bottle of Lanson. She rummaged in her Chanel bag for her wallet.

Mel grinned. Britt was never one to miss a chance to flash her Amex Gold card. ‘You don’t need to pay yet, Britt,’ she pointed out.

Britt flushed with irritation. She hated getting it wrong socially, loathed the thought that people might guess her background despite the chic clothes and laid-back style. She put the card
away. She must get over this stupid fear of not having enough money with her.

‘Well I think she was very brave.’ Both of them looked at Ginny as she sipped her Virgin Mary. She was driving back home to Sussex tonight.

God, who could drink a Bloody Mary without the vodka? Mel marvelled. Ginny could, of course. Even at university she’d been the Head Girl type. You’d half expected her to go and
report you for petting below the waist or being on the Pill.

Ginny pushed back a strand of wispy fair hair and fiddled with her earring. Places like this made her nervous. She’d taken a lot of care choosing her clothes tonight, picking the only suit
in her wardrobe, trying to camouflage herself as a Working Woman. But as soon as she’d walked in here she’d been reminded she wasn’t part of this world at all. Here everyone wore
drop-dead black and skirts were a uniform three inches above the knee, not mid-calf like hers. These people would die before patronizing Giovanni, Hair Artiste of East Grinstead. The receptionist
could almost have handed her one of those stickers you got at conferences: GINNY WALKER, HOUSEWIFE.

‘Hello girls. Waiting for someone?’

Wrapped in their discussion of whether Liz should or shouldn’t have done it, none of them had noticed her arrive. But everyone else in the club had. Mel saw drinkers nudge each other and
whisper behind their hands. Whether she liked it or not, Liz had become an Instant Celebrity.

‘Well,’ teased Mel, handing her a glass of Britt’s champagne, ‘if it isn’t the tearful TV mogul. What kept you? Been weeping on
Wogan
?’

‘Give me a break, would you, Mel? I’ve had it up to here already from Conrad.’

‘Are you surprised?’ Mel moved over on the low sofa to make room for her. ‘I mean he was hardly going to be pleased, was he?’

‘I didn’t do it for Conrad,’ she said wearily. She wished they could talk about something else, but everywhere she went this was all people wanted to discuss.

‘Why did you do it?’ asked Britt, trying to sound casual, hoping her resentment wouldn’t show. In fact she was furious with Liz. It was typical that Liz had landed a job anyone
else would have killed for and she didn’t even seem to value it enough to keep her mouth shut.

For as long as Britt could remember Liz had had things too easily: private school, holidays abroad, a car, even David, the cleverest student of his year. She hadn’t had to fight for
anything like Britt had. And even though it had been Liz who’d invited her, the grammar-school kid, into their posh little group at college, Britt had never really understood why. She kept
feeling that Liz had done her a favour. And she hated people doing her favours.