is just a modern version of networking, that’s all.’
‘You’ve made me feel better. I need to see you soon. There’s a bottle of gin waiting.’
On the train home, my head ached and I felt it detaching itself from my body again and working its way down the carriage so it was moving towards the toilets. This time it happened without warning and I tried closing my eyes and enjoying the session. Wasn’t it nice to be detached from reality for a few moments?
I checked my phone. A message had buzzed up from the nursery but I’d not seen it.
Bella almost fell over today but she is now in good health. No medical intervention was necessary. Please log into the portal to see the latest update on her health.
Hadn’t I just logged in and she was fine? I would see her soon anyway. This was the problem with the continuous updates – there were too many ‘crying wolf’ occasions, so you became jaded and stopped worrying. What if something really serious happened?
After a minute, the sensation stopped and I opened my eyes. I felt normal again. I wasn’t going mad. I called Mum, and she said that Dad had come out to eat lunch but had then gone back to the shed. He hadn’t washed his hair in two weeks and was sleeping in his clothes. Apparently, he’d set up a makeshift bed in there. He was playing very loud classical music in the middle of the night and the neighbours had complained that it was keeping them awake.
‘Did you have some sort of argument?’ I asked. ‘What kicked it off?’
‘I’m worried darling. I think he’s sinking into his old ways. I don’t know what to do.’
‘This is his personality, Mum. He doesn’t like too much social activity. He likes to be on his own. It’s fine. Stop trying to make him do stuff.’
There were times when I suspected I was actually more like my dad – it wasn’t in my nature to be overly social.
‘But the hair thing is driving me crazy. What if someone sniffs him in the supermarket?’
‘There are plenty of smelly people, Mum. No one will notice. Just get him dry shampoo.’
‘Dry shampoo?’
I explained the concept in detail (I’d worked on a project recently all about it – it was one of those things that was doing well because we were TOO BUSY NOW TO EVEN WASH OUR HAIR) and she promised she’d buy some. I wasn’t sure why the head-detaching thing had come back because I was clearly being very successful today. I was solving problems, being social and managing to control the head-detaching feeling. If I could keep this up then maybe I’d get over this bumpy patch (if that was what it was) and start some sort of upward trajectory.
I looked out the window at the trees draped in plastic carrier bags and felt my heart sink. I then got my laptop out and spent fifteen minutes wrapping up my baby wipe presentation. We stopped for ten minutes so it bought me more time. YES, the IDEA of the baby-wipe-sleep-aid was flawed … but DESPITE these challenges it showed potential AS LONG AS it kept a focus on CLEANING benefits rather than SLEEP ENHANCEMENT. If the client was nice, and not too demanding, then things usually went well. It was only when they wanted innovative and weird methodologies (anything that had the word DIGITAL in it was usually a warning sign) that I felt out of my comfort zone. Perhaps I was going to be okay and wasn’t losing relevance with each passing day.
As I came out of the station, I looked down at my phone and right on schedule i.e. AFTER regular work hours, Phoebe had sent an email. She wasn’t happy with my ideas for the fish finger thing. She thought they were outmoded and showed a lack of strategic thinking. She just came out with her critique and didn’t mince words. I bit my lip and used words and phrases like ‘awesome’ and ‘thanks for the interesting feedback’ and ‘I look forward to collaborating on some interesting strategy’. I promised I would do better tomorrow. Then visualized her head being squeezed between the doors of an elevator. Her head would be hard and it would take a while to squash it completely but I tried to conjure up her expression, and how I would stand there with my turmeric latte in one hand just smiling (or maybe with no expression at all, which would possibly be more frightening). Just when I felt I was still relevant and could contribute, something would happen to tell me otherwise.
Pete had texted to say he’d collected Bella. As I turned into our street, I felt my blood pressure finally return to normal. We lived in a beautiful, leafy suburb. There were lots of families, a lovely park with swings and some climbing equipment, and it felt like the opposite of the glass monster I’d been freezing my ass off in all day. Our overweight tabby cat was sitting on the kitchen table. The early evening autumnal sun was coming through the French doors. Bella was playing with Pete upstairs. Dad would come out of the shed and wash his hair. I would write some more fish finger strategies. I had a beautiful daughter who would hopefully never work in an air conditioned brick like me. I also had breasts that were saggy, but not actually touching the floor. I could listen to Radio Four and understand about forty per cent of what was being discussed (less if it was the news but on Women’s Hour I could understand more, as it was trying to be more accessible). I ate burritos. Perhaps one day I would be more like Bryony and change careers. Like just change … it might be possible?
I had no idea who was in the charts but I was the SAME AGE as Kate Moss and younger than Kylie Minogue. I would always be younger than Kylie. I hadn’t seen any photos of her of late. Was she going to move into the Helen Mirren phase next? Or was she stuck in the middle like me? Not yet in the ‘it’s amazing that she can still speak and walk,’ bit.
Despite these positive affirmations – I am younger than Kylie. I ate a burrito. I am younger than Kylie. I ate a burrito – I felt confused. This head detaching thing was perplexing. If I’d been Mum I would have Googled ‘brain cancer’ or some such but I wasn’t a hypochondriac. Despite being self-obsessed (though, arguably, no more than your average modern woman), I didn’t go to the doctor until I needed stitches or a limb fell off. I avoided them at all costs.
I heard a shriek coming from upstairs. Bella ran down, her face flushed and rubbing her eyes. She was excited to see me. She wrapped her arms around my head and squeezed hard. Another moment noted. It was enough right? We sat on the small, stained sofa in the kitchen (I must replace it at some point), and she told me about her day (drawings, fights, cake for one child and not for her because she’d called another child ‘a bum hole’). Pete and I nodded at one another, and he went to fetch his iPad. I put Bella to bed (we chatted a bit first about unicorns and whether they were real and she told me how much she hated her the nursery grown-ups again). Then once she was asleep I sat stroking her hair, and when I came back down, Pete was still glaring at the screen. Technology wasn’t good for couples who were looking for excuses not to talk to one another.
‘How was work today?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ he replied.
‘Anything interesting happen?’
‘No.’
‘How was my day then?’
‘How was your day?’ he said looking up for a millisecond.
‘One of my colleagues didn’t even know who Thurston Moore was.’
‘Well they’re much younger than you so it’s hardly surprising.’
‘Well thanks, I know that already.’
Suddenly I felt angry. There’d been a time when I’d have vented about Phoebe but there was no point. His advice was always the same – ‘why don’t you just tell her to fuck off?’ Pete had a low tolerance for office politics because he’d never worked in one. It was also boring. I knew it was boring. I was goddamn bored by it