Mummy Said the F-Word (31 page)

Then I hear it, behind an ornately carved door: a warm, confident voice – Millie’s voice. Someone who never has puffer-fish feet.

I step in. Millie waves across the room and makes to head in my direction, but is stopped for an urgent head-to-head by a stressed-looking girl clutching a sheaf of papers. Still an hour to go before the readers arrive (or rather, in Millie-speak, the ‘normal people’ – i.e. not media people, as if those who work on magazines inhabit some rarefied parallel universe). I loiter by the door, my heels throbbing rhythmically, wondering how to occupy myself. It’s at times like this that I wish I still smoked. What is there to fiddle with, now that smoking indoors is illegal? I’d be able to busy myself with lighting up and smoking, and wouldn’t feel like a stranded carp.

Stands have been set up round the edge of the conference suite. They’re for products I know only from the adverts in
Bambino
: Au Naturelle Baby Purées, Little Padders Footwear, Botty-Bot Pure Terry Nappy System. My poor, beleaguered infants, dragged up on cheap commercial baby mush with the texture of sick, their feet encased in Mum’s lumpen knitted bootees (in the days when she still remembered she was a grandmother and clacked her needles with a vengeance). I did try making baby food, lovingly puréeing carrots and sweet potatoes, which Jake spat out in disgust. I gave up after that.

‘Hi, sweetie,’ Millie gushes, slightly breathless but looking stunning in a swirly-patterned wrap dress that clings fetchingly to her child-free form.

‘Hello, Millie.’ I am stilted by shyness. This is ridiculous. I have known her for fifteen years. I try to un-clench my back teeth.

‘Hey.’ She throws a slender arm round my shoulders. ‘You look lovely, hon. God, what fabulous shoes. Haven’t seen you in heels since … I can’t remember. Want a coffee or anything? Or a proper drink?’

‘No thanks.’ My insides are juddering along merrily enough without a caffeine injection.

‘Are you OK with everything? You know what you’re doing?’

‘No.’ I snigger idiotically.

‘Hey, don’t stress. It’s just a little thing, OK? No big deal.’

‘Blink and you’ll miss it. Yes, I remember.’ I manage a watery smile.

Millie laughs and swishes away to attend to the more pressing matter of where the waitresses should stand to dispense welcome drinks.

For something to do – as an alternative to sweating and shaking in the toilets, or having lustful thoughts about cigarettes – I peruse the stands and am cornered by an eager girl at the Botty-Bot display. People are starting to wander into the suite, taking their glasses of wine or freshly squeezed juice from the waitresses’ trays, and are looking around expectantly. Most don’t really fit the
Bambino
image. There are all types – all sizes and shapes – from the downright unkempt to the just holding it together to, occasionally, the scarily groomed. Most, thankfully, look
normal
.

‘You’re Caitlin Brown, aren’t you?’ chirps the Botty-Bot girl.

‘That’s right, yes.’ Being recognised is so weird. Already a few women have cast me knowing glances. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ looks, accompanied by raised eyebrows and whispers. I am hardly on a par with Madonna, or even a Z-list reality-TV contestant, yet it’s still unnerving – as if the back of my dress might be tucked into my pants, exposing my ten-denier-clad arse.

‘So, what’s your feeling?’ the girl asks.

‘Sorry?’

‘On nappies,’ she prompts me. ‘Terries versus disposables.’

Christ on a bike. Not that one. Disposables it’s been for the lot of them – with Travis’s rear still firmly encased at night-time, thus qualifying our family for the Planet Wrecker Award. So shoot me dead. The only parent I know who gamely adhered to a terries regime is Rachel. ‘Well, I did try using terriers …’ I begin.

Terriers?
What am I saying?

We both laugh. ‘I shouldn’t say this,’ the girl hisses over the stand, ‘but I’m only filling in for a friend today. I’ve got twins.
Two
years old. Between them they’re responsible for clogging up half the landfill sites in the south-east.’

I am ridiculously grateful to this girl and take one of her sample nappy liners anyway, just to be friendly. I can always use it as a shoe-shining cloth.

‘Cait? This is Henry, our
MD
.’

I swing round to be greeted by Millie, who’s glowing prettily, and a middle-aged man with veiny cheeks. ‘Henry’, she adds, ‘meet our famous Caitlin Brown.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ My hand shoots out like a robot’s, and I try for a confident smile. God, I could murder a proper drink, but am sticking to water (still, not fizzy: less likely to cause an embarrassing belching incident on stage).

‘You’ve made a huge difference to the magazine,’ Henry enthuses. ‘Stuffy old bag we used to have … What was her name again, Millie?’

Her eyebrows perform a manic wiggle. ‘Harriet,’ she hisses. ‘She’s here, actually.’

‘Is she?’ I am horrified, having effectively done her out of a job while she was in the throes of illness.

‘I can’t understand why she’s come,’ Millie whispers as Henry glides towards a cluster of suits. ‘I didn’t invite her or anything. She just turned up, with a ticket, like everyone else.’

‘Shall I speak to her or what?’

Millie shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about her. Just concentrate on your performance, OK?’

‘Performance?’ I repeat hollowly.

‘Hey, Caitlin! How are you feeling?’ Bev gushes, tottering towards me in ill-advised skinny jeans and a marshmallow-pink top. Marcia looms close behind, her black shirt dress clinging elegantly to her curvaceous form. It makes my dress resemble a tube of liquorice.

‘I’m fine,’ I say brightly.

‘You don’t look it,’ Bev announces. ‘You look bloody petrified. I’ve got a packet of ten Silk Cut in my bag, thought I’d treat
myself
seeing as it’s a special occasion. Fancy sneaking out for a quick puff, soothe your nerves?’

‘No thanks,’ I say, although I want to, very much. Right now I could smoke the entire packet.

Marcia squints at my dress. ‘George at Asda?’ she says with a guffaw.

‘I think so,’ I say, although in truth it’s so ancient I can’t remember where it came from.

‘Yes, I’m sure it is. My cleaning lady has the same one.’

I smile curtly, amazed that Marcia has even heard of Asda, or that she speaks to her cleaning staff.

Rachel scuttles over, looking oddly disconnected without Eve jammed at her side, and gives me a warm hug. Everyone has a gleeful air, as if delighted to be presented with food that they haven’t prepared themselves. They snatch at canapés, studying them like Martians who have never encountered Earthlings’ food. ‘Ooh, look at these!’ Bev exclaims, grabbing a pawful of what looks like caramelised fruit wrapped in prosciutto. I’m surprised she doesn’t snatch the tray, open her gob and tip in the entire lot.

I nibble a blini smeared with caviar. It’s so densely fishy it causes the interior of my mouth to shrivel instantly. I never feel comfortable with canapés. They’re like buses, coming thick and fast when you don’t need them. Then, when your belly feels hollow and your blood sugar’s plummeted, all you can find is an oil-smeared empty tray.

Two hours, I remind myself as Bev slurps her wine. Two hours and I’m out of here, in my safe, silent house. Then I can be normal again.

‘Um, hi, Caitlin.’

Amelia. Sam’s ex, soon-to-be-no-longer ex, a vision of beauty with rose-petal skin and amber-flecked eyes. ‘Amelia, hi!’ I gush. ‘What are you doing here?’ I try not to blast fish-breath into her face.

‘I do read
Bambino
sometimes.’ She smiles. ‘I am still a mum, remember.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ I shift my weight, trying to ease the biting pressure of the ankle straps.

‘It’s OK.’ She laughs kindly. ‘Sam says you’re brilliant – that you’ve practised your whole speech thing with him.’

I shrug, conscious of my blazing cheeks. Yes, we rehearsed a few times over the past week, with Sam posing as Heckling Reader, Indignant Reader, Reader Up for a Fight – every reader type we could think of – but did he have to
tell
her? What other little nuggets does he pass on?

‘He’s been a huge help,’ I murmur. ‘In fact, Lola and Travis are staying at his place tonight.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Of course she does. Amelia is no longer the shadowy figure who makes occasional forays to London from Cornwall, but part of his life again. Each time I’m at Sam’s I scan the bathroom for evidence of girlie occupation – creams, ‘feminine’ razors, a box of Lil-lets. Nothing yet, apart from the purple scarf on the chair, but it’s only a matter of time. I snatch some kind of crustacean in a fibrous wrapping from a passing tray and ram it into my mouth.

Millie assumes her position behind the podium on the stage. The chatter subsides, as if a blanket has descended on the room. ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Millie Dawson, editor of
Bambino
magazine. Welcome to our very first reader event.’

I steal a sideways glance at Amelia. Her corn-coloured waves fall prettily around her face. I have to ask. I
have
to.

‘How are things with you two?’ I whisper.

There, I’ve done it. I’m such a fizz of sweaty-palmed nerves that it feels like I’ve nothing to lose. I crunch hard on an unchewable bit of crustacean. It spikes the inside of my cheek.

‘What, me and Sam?’ Amelia whispers back.

I nod. ‘I mean … d’you think you’ll get back together? Harvey’s been saying …’ God, my audacity astounds me.

‘To be honest, that’s partly why I came. To grab a few minutes with you. Stupid, I know, because you’ll be busy doing your speech and everything.’

‘A fabulous selection of guest speakers …’ Millie continues. Her hair gleams, and her décolleté looks lightly oiled. She’s the right kind of shiny. I am a sweaty liquorice stick.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ I hiss. Oh God, it’s all going to come out. Amelia knows how I feel about Sam. She’s seen into my head and glimpsed the salacious thoughts I’ve been having about her beloved.

I am on the verge of dying with shame. I need booze, cigarettes, anything.

She sips her purplish drink. ‘I know how he feels about you,’ she murmurs, flicking me a sly glance.

Jesus. As if I’m not a scramble of nerves already. ‘Do you?’ I manage. So he does feel something, more than I’ve ever dared hope.

‘What a good friend you are to him,’ Amelia continues, ‘how you’ve been so supportive, hanging out with him and having Harvey to stay over.’

Friend. Supportive. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

‘And I thought maybe you’d be the person to tell me if I was being a complete idiot.’ She giggles, and big-cheese Henry throws her a stern look.

‘I don’t get it,’ I whisper.

‘I mean … wanting me and Sam to be together. Do you think he wants that, or would I be ruining everything all over again?’

‘I … I’m not sure.’

‘It’s just … I thought you, better than anyone, might be able to tell me. It’s so scary, Caitlin. I’m terrified of misreading him and getting it wrong.’

The adrenaline that has been coursing through my veins seems to seep away and I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of flatness. I could disintegrate right here, shrouded in George at Asda.

‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘I think he does. I thought you were getting remarried anyway. Harvey’s been telling Jake …’

She smiles and her eyes sparkle. ‘Of course Harvey says that. It’s what he wants, like most kids whose parents live apart. It’s not the same, is it, doing the weekend parent thing? I think boys especially need to be with their mums, don’t you?’

‘Um, yes,’ I manage, thinking of Jake playing with his new friend in Lego Towers.

‘So you don’t think I’m crazy, arranging a kind of meeting with Sam to see if we can work something out?’

‘No, I don’t think you’re crazy.’ The caviar repeats on me, even fishier this time.

There’s applause as Millie holds up this week’s issue.

‘I’m so glad,’ Amelia murmurs, ‘because I have this stupid idea about taking him to dinner to a little French place in Camden. La Rose, it’s called. It’s old-fashioned, not trendy or glamorous. It has checked tablecloths and candles in dribbly wine bottles – you know the kind of place – but it’s special to us.’

‘Why?’ I really don’t want to hear this.

She smiles coyly. ‘It’s where we went the day I found out I was pregnant. I took the pregnancy test with me and I showed it to him and he was so shocked and excited.’

I forget all this – that they had a life together, with their baby, before Cornwall swept her away. And now she’s about to stomp right back in.

‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ I say. It comes out as a growl.

‘Well, let’s see if I can pluck up the nerve.’

‘And our first guest,’ Millie says, ‘has been a huge hit since she joined the magazine just a few months ago.’

Amelia claps a hand over her mouth. ‘God, listen to me wittering on. You’d better get up there.’

‘Yes, I’d better. Good luck with Sam.’

She throws her arms round me in an unexpected hug. ‘Thanks. You’re a lovely person, Caitlin. I can see why Sam’s so fond of you. I couldn’t think of anyone else I could talk to about this.’

I turn away, but Amelia catches my arm. ‘Imagine them naked,’ she adds with a grin. ‘Picture everyone in this room stark bollock naked, even the fat guys in suits.’

A snigger bursts out. ‘I’ll do that,’ I say.

‘I’m rooting for you,’ R told me, and something surges through me. A feeling that I’ll get through this alive.

And I do. Imagine them naked, I mean – even the big cheeses. So many faces are tilted my way, expecting me to say something funny or clever or both. It feels like my heels have doubled in height and I wobble uncertainly, as if drunk. Every word of my script evaporates from my brain.

‘When Millie asked me to be
Bambino’s
agony aunt,’ I begin, my voice wavering, ‘I wasn’t sure if I was up to the job.’

Fuck it. Just be yourself. It’s OK to feel scared, isn’t that what I told Mashed-Potato Brain?

‘I felt such a phoney,’ I continue, feeling braver now, ‘as a parent certainly, and probably as a human being.’