be perfectly honest, who could blame him?
Anyway, when pressed officially as to my opinion of Seth, I smile curtly and acknowledge his fine leadership qualities and firm grasp of the newspaper business, always adding that he’s never anything else than a consummate professional, at all times, always.
But when I’m standing in the shower, which is about the only place I get any kind of private time to myself these days, I will name-call Seth Coleman as the sleaziest, most hypocritical b**locks on the face of the planet, with a thin, slimy, greasy head of hair, and pockmarked, boiled-red skin, whose total absence of neck gives him more than a passing resemblance to Barney Rubble. Oh, and with an ego the approximate size of Saturn’s fifty-seven moons. Represents just about every trait that I despise in the male sex and even manages to discover a few new ones along the way. Patronising to my face, but behind my back, I know right well that he’s deeply resentful of working for a woman. And with my seven-year contract up for renewal in the next few months, even the dogs on the street seem to know that his greedy eye is now firmly focused on the big prize.
A classically mean-spirited man, he’s also someone who keeps a mental tally of all my losses in work, diligently measuring all my shortcomings, rather than any of my gains. For starters, he’s been busily spreading rumour after rumour about me and they’ve all filtered back; that I’m slipping, that ever since I had Lily I’m not the firebrand I once was, that I’m not living and breathing the job like I used to. And I know, just know without being told, that he’s just biding his time, waiting for me to crack, and so therefore I can’t.
So I do what I have to do. Go into work and act the part of the bossiest boss that the world of big bossy business could ask for. Do exactly what I’m programmed to do. And it’s tough and getting tougher by the day, even though my job defines me; it’s who I am and not for one second could I consider doing something less stressful.
But having said all that, the brightest part of my day isn’t when I sign off on the next issue of the Post, it’s seeing the little strawberry-blonde head of an almost-three-year-old sleeping like an angel when I get home, cuddled up in her bed with her favourite teddy bear beside her. And I’ll gaze at her adorably freckled pink little angel’s face and whisper to her that I love her so, so much and that one day we’ll have proper time to be together.
Then I do what I always do; collapse into bed and try to lock away the guilt that feels like heartburn every time I realise the one single thing that has the power to kill me on the inside; the only time I seem to see my baby girl these days is when she’s sleeping.
But back to Elka, still spitting fire and venom at me on the upstairs landing.
‘Lily is beautiful little girl,’ she spews, ‘and I will be sad to say goodbye to her, but the hours you make me work are crazy. Crazy! And they making me crazy too!’
‘Really sorry about this,’ I’m forced to interrupt, unable to take much more, But ‘I’m going to be late for work. Could we please discuss this later?’
‘I not finished! I know my entitlements too. My other friends tell me you must give me P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front before I leave.’
Interesting, I think wryly, grabbing my car keys. Elka’s grasp of English is so weak she can barely get by in the supermarket and yet her vocabulary freely encompasses quite scarily impressive phrases like ‘P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front’?
‘Elka,’ I tell her, as briskly as I can, given that I’m now running so late it doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘Can I just point out that it’s not as if you have to take care of Lily all day, every day? She’s only just started in preschool and is there till early afternoon every day, which gives you a good five-hour break, plus it’s not like you’re expected to do housework on top of everything else. I’ve a cleaning lady, a gardener and a handyman, who between them pretty much do everything that needs doing around here, so you’ll forgive me for thinking that you actually have it pretty easy compared to some.’
Like oooh … me for starters.
But the snarling harridan stands firm, arms folded, eyes slitted, ponytail swished defiantly back over her shoulders.
‘You not listening to me. I am handing you in my notice and I want to be gone by the end of the week. I’m veeeery sorry, but that’s final.’
It’s all I can do to nod curtly, resisting the temptation to wham the hall door behind me, and get into my car as calmly as I can, above all trying not to let her see how much she’s knocked me for six.
Stopped at traffic lights on Leeson St. on the way to work, I have to pull the car over when I realise that out of nowhere, there’s a hot hole in the pit of my stomach and suddenly I have an urgent need to cry. And now here it comes, my daily anxiety attack – jeez, I could nearly set a clock by its arrival. So out they come, messy, uncontrollable, dry, hiccupping tears of frustration and tiredness that I never allow myself, born from not having paused for breath in … Oh … about seven years now. Can’t help it. It’s like my heart is aching with a pain that’s completely indescribable.
Christ alive, not even six a.m. in the shagging morning and already I’m filled with a darkness that’s almost unbearable at the thoughts of the day ahead. To my knowledge, I’ve never actually had a heart attack, but I swear, it couldn’t possibly feel much worse than this.
Because I have never felt so torn in my whole life. Not just between work and home; that I could deal with, that wouldn’t be a problem. Trouble is my job isn’t just one big job, it’s also about nine hundred and ninety-nine small jobs that go with the one big job, so instead of feeling pulled in two directions, I’m being pulled in around a thousand. And frankly there are times when I just don’t know how much longer this can continue.
‘Oh what the hell is wrong with me?’ I say aloud, starting to get panicky as I fish round the bottom of my handbag for a Kleenex. Can this really be me, Eloise Elliot, acting like such a complete milksop? Time was when I would work this exact same schedule and it barely knocked a feather out of me. Time was if I happened to drive past a woman on her own sobbing her heart out in a parked car at dawn, I’d look at her pityingly and assume she was having some kind of breakdown and clearly needed professional help. Time was when I used to think that I’d somehow been born without tear ducts.
But that girl only existed B.L. – before Lily – and now in her place is a shadow of the old Eloise Elliot, a woman filled with darkness who’s expected to do the work of a dozen people and never ever crack, all the while eaten up with guilt like I’ve never known. And why? Because a little girl who’s nearly three will come home from preschool later on today, full of stories and chat that her mummy will never get to hear.
And now, on top of everything else, I’m nannyless. Yet again.
The six a.m. news comes on the car radio and I know this bout of unforgivable self-indulgence is over and it’s time to go and face into another day. So I make a huge effort to compose myself, knock back a large gulpful of Rescue Remedy (an editor’s best friend), pat a bit of concealer round my puffy, red-raw eyes and with shaking hands, drive on. I’m already a good fifteen minutes behind schedule so I put my foot to the floor to try and make up the time. If I dared to arrive in late, word would spread that something was up and rule one of survival in my job is simple; never let anyone see a chink in the armour for any reason, ever. They’re like a pack of barracudas in my office, I swear they can physically smell the fear.
Calmly as I can, I make a mental note to find another childcare agency and leave a voicemail message for Rachel, my assistant, telling her to start setting up interviews
