a transatlantic flight, and went straight to a meeting, then got straight back on the plane (perhaps turning her knickers inside out in the airplane toilet), slicked on a bit of lip gloss, readying herself to cook a delicious three course meal for her dinner guests when she got home. So it was true that she’d only had a week off for her maternity leave, and I’d also heard another rumour she’d come back with the umbilical cord still dangling out the bottom of her tights (she’d been dynamic right from the get go then). She lost her baby weight the next week by only eating nuts and drinking water. Her baby boy started talking when he was five months old. His first words were ‘Yaki Soba’ (his favourite dish from Wagamama). She did a successful pitch to an online retailer on her first day back in the office. She never drew penises on her notebooks (as far as I knew), and she was constantly giving me advice on how to be more productive.
‘Rebecca – you need to get up an hour earlier and work on your emails.’
‘Why don’t you use the commute time to ATTACK some of your top objectives? You can actually use your phone to record your TO DO LIST and you need never forget anything important again.’
‘Have you tried that new productivity app called RELENTLESS? It means you can fill in every single moment of the day with tasks?’
Both Phoebe and Darren were cut from the same cloth. Phoebe was the CEO and Darren the Managing Director but Phoebe liked to monitor me at close range. There had been a time, when I’d been doing better, and she’d been more hands off. So, the fact that she was so in my face was not good news. I sometimes thought they would have had amazing children together, who never had to sleep (waste of time), never got ill (illness was for wimps) and worked 24/7. The only difference was that Darren tried to pretend he was a nice person and Phoebe didn’t bother with that at all.
I didn’t like to fill in every available moment with work. It was bad enough that no one had dead time, that no one stared or observed anything because they were constantly on their phones. I still cried now and then when I left Bella at nursery and was then too teary to check emails on the way in. Unlike Phoebe, I had still looked pregnant eighteen months after the birth. My pelvic floor was a giant plastic bag flapping about, and I peed without warning. Each time I wrote a business proposal, I usually lost the project. I kept thinking how pointless this stuff was. Who cared about the positioning strategy for some ear buds? Or an innovation path for an Asian suppository brand? I felt like I had no insights to offer unless they involved my daughter and her sleeping habits. I watched colleagues’ eyes glaze over as I talked about her. I wasn’t dynamic it was true. Clients liked me because I was kind. I made them feel good by laughing at their jokes and asking about their family.
Some people are top strategists and others are … nice.
As I made my way out of the station, walking to the bus stop for the second stage of my journey, I still wasn’t feeling right. There was an uneasy sensation working its way through my body. The email from Phoebe had only made it worse. The month before I’d just finished a project for a frozen yoghurt product. I had found it all so demoralizing. There were people dying in wars and famines, and I was contemplating whether this product should be called ‘Milky Joy,’ or ‘Full of Milkyness.’ Then whether it should have a cartoon dog or a koala as its mouthpiece. I knew this was where I was going wrong. I had to talk myself into it. I had to try and emulate Phoebe.
Then I remembered Dad and quickly left him a message. ‘Dad, can you please pick up? Mum is worried about you. She says you’re spending all your time in the shed and haven’t come out in a while now. Ring me back or send me a text just so I know all is okay.’
Back home I couldn’t wait to see Bella but she was grumpy and tired, kept flailing about and kicking off about the fact that her pasta had tomato sauce ON TOP rather than ON THE SIDE and I’d mixed the broccoli in too. On the positive side, her head just had a small bruise on the side so the fall obviously hadn’t been serious. Nevertheless I lost my temper and ended up shouting at her. Eventually things calmed down, I put her to bed, and spent some time stroking her hair. These were my favourite moments in the day.
‘Mummy, is it nursery day tomorrow?’
‘Yes it is darling.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
She sat up and flung her arms around me, planting tiny kisses on the side of my head.
‘I know. But listen, just two more days and we’ll be together again. We can do lots of fun things.’
I put her back into bed, and pulled the duvet up which she immediately kicked off again. I often came in in the night and found her lying on top of the covers, her tiny feet freezing cold.
‘I don’t like the grown-ups at nursery, they’re horrible.’
‘But you never want to leave when I pick you up.’
‘They said I was a baby because I cried this morning.’
‘Well that’s not true. You’re clearly a big girl.’
‘They’re monsters. They’re horrible. Mummy isn’t a monster.’
‘Sometimes Mummy is a monster right?’
She closed her eyes, sucking on the ear of her bunny toy and fell asleep. I remembered the nights standing over her cot, willing her to sleep, crying with the tiredness of sleep deprivation. It was true that things got easier. It was perhaps a blessing that I’d never had another baby. I was too old to cope. She murmured in her sleep, and something tugged inside. I leant in and smelt her hair. This was one of those happy moments. These moments usually involved Bella. Moments when I felt like life had a bit more meaning and purpose. When I wasn’t lost in a panic of information and things to do.
The prawns had been defrosted.
Pete and I watched TV like most evenings.
‘Why is she running back into the factory when she knows the psychopath is in there?’ I was holding a pillow in front of my face.
‘She’s not. She’s going back to warn him – she wants to save him most likely.’
‘Yeah but she’s the one having an affair with the gangster. Why does she even care about the other guy?’
Pete didn’t answer. He refused eye contact. He hated it if I talked during a dramatic moment.
That had been all the words for the day. No more content. In bed, he gave my arm a quick squeeze, rolled over onto his side, and started snoring.
That night I dreamt I was floating in the sea and I came upon a giant fish wrapped in plastic. He kept floating past me, mouthing the words DYNAMIC then lying very still, like he was in a coma. Was this the fish finger proposition? Was this my career? Was this Dad? Was this Bella? My relationship with Pete stagnating?
Your dad came out of shed for exactly one hour yesterday.
