People LIke Her(11)
The next one is Ally, an aspiring Instamum from Devon, who asks for a photo in front of the Oxford Circus sign. She spots me from a distance and literally runs down the platform to demand a photo—one of the perils of being permanently dressed in on-brand primary colors is that I’m so easy to spot—then enlists her embarrassed husband to take it, barking orders and checking the angles every few attempts (“Higher! Can’t you get the sign in? My shoes aren’t in the shot!”).
“This is the first weekend away that Chris and I have had since Hadrian was born. He’s two now. I literally cannot believe we’ve bumped into you. You are my idol. You made me believe in myself as a mother. Like I can still be me, even though I have a baby,” she gushes as she checks the photos.
“You’re the reason I started out on my own influencer journey after I got sacked when I was six months pregnant. I just thought, Here is a mama building her own business on her own terms. Being a strong woman with a baby and something important to say. The Mamabare feed is like my bible.” She clasps her hands in front of her and shakes her head.
By this point, Bear has started to cry. Ally actually looks like she might too.
“That’s incredible to hear, Ally, thank you, but I’m certainly no saint! I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to run—little Bear needs a feed, and I draw the line at getting my boobs out on the Bakerloo line! Tag me and I’ll make sure I follow you back,” I say as I march off with a smile.
The third person, who introduces herself as Caroline, stops me by the ticket barriers to share her battles with postnatal depression. I have, she says, been such an inspiration. Just knowing that there was someone out there who got where she was coming from, who had been through the dark nights too, stopped her from feeling so alone. Stopped her from doing something silly, from really losing it. She pulls her #greydays reusable coffee cup out of her handbag, and waves her Mamabare phone cover at me.
“Always remember, you are the best mama you can be, Caroline. Your little human thinks you’re a superhero,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
I lumber up from the station with the pram under my arm and get three steps from the top before anyone offers to help. I flash them a quick smile and say I am fine, thanks. I’m dreading getting this baby up the five flights to Irene’s office. You would really think, as Britain’s leading agent for online parenting stars, she would have an office that was a little more accessible. Then again, Irene has never shown any sign of being interested in babies. It’s entirely possible she chose an office at the top of the tallest, narrowest staircase she could find in this hellishly busy part of London as a deliberate ploy to discourage her clients from bringing their offspring along when they come to see her.
I put the pram down and fish my hand sanitizer and phone out of my bag. I have seven missed calls, all from Dan. Christ, I think to myself, picturing Dan trying repeatedly and with increasing irritation opening and closing the same three kitchen cupboards in search of a jar of pesto while Coco whines for her lunch. What’s the crisis this time, Dan? Oh, you can’t find the fucking colander.
Then, a microsecond later, it occurs to me that something really might have happened, and for every second that Dan does not answer his phone, my panic escalates.
It keeps ringing. I tell myself it is fine and I am being ridiculous.
It still keeps ringing. I tell myself that he has probably just locked them both out or is checking whether he needs to pick up anything for dinner.
Still ringing. Probably, I tell myself, it was just a pocket call and that is why he is not picking up now. I’m sure they are at the playground and having a lovely time.
His phone keeps ringing.
His phone keeps ringing.
The name of a pub. Three letters. An r, a d, and a capital N. It’s lucky I’ve always been good at crossword puzzles. Come to think of it, Grace used to enjoy them too. The funny thing with crosswords and that sort of business is that even when you think you are stumped, even when you have put the paper aside and gone off to do something else, your brain is still working on the answers you didn’t get, ticking away, making the connections that had your conscious brain perplexed. Then when you pick the paper up and sit down with your pencil again a few hours later, there they are, the answers, just waiting for you to write them down.
I strode off confidently down a blind alley at first. As far as the r and the d were concerned, they surely—in a pub name—had to be the second half of Lord. Lord N____?, I thought. Why, it must be Lord Nelson, of course.
My mouth was dry. My heart was thumping.
From reading Mamabare’s posts, from reading Emmy’s interviews, from listening to her talk to other people like her on podcasts, I have accumulated over time a little treasure trove of information about where she and her family live. I know, for instance, that they live east. I know they are only ten minutes from the Westfield shopping center. I know they are close enough to a big park to walk there with a buggy, and that when Emmy worked in magazines she sometimes used to cycle to work along the canal. I know there is a Tube station and a Tesco Metro and where they live is equidistant between two schools (the good school and the other place, as Emmy always calls them). I know they do not live in any of the places I have seen or heard Emmy complain about being priced out of. I have heard her say at least twice how much she wished they lived closer to a Waitrose. I know there is a petrol station just around the corner where she sometimes used to go for nappies and/or magazines and/or emergency chocolate when Coco was first born.