People LIke Her(35)
It is strange how people come and go in life, so quickly, so easily. When you are young you think everyone is going to be around forever.
First there was me and George. Then there was me and George and Grace. Then there was me and George and Grace and Jack. Then there was me and Grace and Jack and Ailsa. Then it was just me and Grace and Jack. Then it was just me and Grace. Then it was just me.
Chapter Eight
Emmy
“Am I speaking to Holly at the You Glow Mama Awards? Hi, it’s Emmy Jackson. Look, I’m running ten minutes late, we’ve had a bit of a situation at home. At least you don’t need to worry about hair and makeup—my look is sleep-deprived and peanut butter–smeared!” I laugh, waking up a dozing Bear in the car seat next to me. I might be prepared to leave Coco with Winter, but dumping a newborn who needs to be breastfed on the hour would be pushing it.
It wasn’t the best start to the day: waking up to discover someone had posted the name and address of Coco’s nursery on a gossip forum. It was Irene who alerted us. Dan was in the room when I took her call and could tell from my expression it was something serious. All the time Irene was explaining what had happened, he was standing there frowning and looking concerned and repeatedly mouthing, What? at me.
The forum removed the post—which also featured a self-righteous rant about me having the cheek to call myself a real mother when I had a daughter in full-time childcare, railing against my audacity in profiting from a family I never actually spend any time with—as soon as Irene complained. The internet never forgets, though—once something’s been out there, even briefly, it exists forever. Less helpfully, the forum had no information on who posted it, other than that they were a first-timer to the site. Awful as it sounds, it does immediately occur to me that it could quite easily have been one of the other nursery mums.
I know they bitch and snipe about me—I can feel the atmosphere change as I get past the gates, see the whispers behind the hands of the little gangs that congregate around the fringes of the yard. They’re all perfectly pleasant to my face, but I’m convinced that at least a couple stir things up about me online. One or two may even be the trolls with no followers and no profile pictures who say mean things about my kids. Who knows? I’m sure some of them lurk on my profile without ever actually following and, after a few glasses of wine, pull out their phones to show their friends that awful influencer mum from nursery, while whispering, wide-eyed, that they’d found my company accounts online and Can you believe how much she makes? They would never sell their family on the internet. I mean, that photo of Coco having a tantrum! She’ll be bullied, of course, if she isn’t already. Kids can be so cruel.
Maybe, but their mums can be way worse.
Perhaps it’s someone we know, perhaps not—we’re hardly incognito. Anyone could have spotted us in the neighborhood. It might have been a follower whose messages Winter didn’t reply to enthusiastically enough who wants their revenge and has played detective. It could have been anyone, but given the safety implications for Coco and how on edge Dan has been about things since the break-in, it’s clear that we need to take immediate action.
The upshot, for today at least, is that leaving our daughter with Winter was our only option. Coco can’t go to that nursery again, and Dan was absolutely adamant that he couldn’t possibly cancel his completely vital appointment with his incredibly important editor. I would’ve taken her with me to the awards, but she refused to leave the house. So with a planking four-year-old teetering on the verge of a total meltdown and a howling newborn, the choices were limited.
While my assistant probably won’t actually kill my daughter, as a childcare arrangement this solution is hardly ideal. I’ve been on the phone to the awards all of ninety seconds, but by the time I hang up I have five new messages from her, asking how to deal with Coco’s demands for chocolate and finger paints and yet another episode of Paw Patrol.
It’s a sunny day, just take her to the park, I quickly type as the car pulls up at the venue. I see I have a WhatsApp from Polly, flick back a wave and a kiss emoji, and make a mental note to look properly later.
My daughter is generally well behaved, although she has recently developed an obsession with my iPhone. Depending on her mood, she veers wildly between demanding I take photos while she poses—then thumbing endlessly through them until she finds one where she looks “pretty enough”—and trying to grab it out of my hand, shouting, “I want you to look at ME, Mama! Look at ME!” I’m by no means immune to that particular guilt trip, but the to-and-fro-ing is disorienting.
And while Winter may be a more competent PA than I’d initially expected, she’s no Mary Poppins. She seems a bit confused by the whole concept of children and why you might want to own one, approaching Coco in the same way as one of her many hats: a useful prop to pose with. Come to think of it, I’ve overheard Dan’s mother sniping that I do the same thing.
I apply another layer of lipstick, ruffle my hair so it looks not unlike I climbed into this cab through the sunroof, spray my face with my Evian Brumisateur, look into my phone, and press record.
“Some things I’ve learned about making plans when you have kids. First, don’t. Second, get your childcare on lockdown unless you want to be a sweaty mess like me . . . I mean, look at this”—I wipe my cheek and proffer a glistening finger to the phone—“When exactly does dewy glow slip into sweaty mess? Asking for a friend . . .