People LIke Her(63)

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dan mutters to himself, palming his forehead, kneading his brow. “On top of everything fucking else.”

Yeah, Dan, I think, on top of everything else. On top of a husband whose combined royalties and lending rights income in the last tax year came to ￡7.10 and yet who, as far as I could tell, quite enjoyed our long weekend in Lisbon and our winter week in Marrakech and our free fortnight in the Maldives. On top of being someone who pays the mortgage, pays for the childcare, pays the electricity bill, slogging away every day in an industry that constantly demands I reveal more, peel off yet another layer of skin, bare everything, share everything, just to entertain some half-interested stranger for a quarter of a minute.

My phone rings. Unknown number. I stare at it, close my eyes for a moment, hoping that when I open them again it will all have gone away. It stops for a second, then starts again. This time, it is a number I recognize. Irene.

“I’ve just got off the phone with the Mail on Sunday. We have a lot of damage control to do here, Emmy. Everything else,” she says, matter-of-factly, “we can deal with later. You need to get hold of Polly now, convince her to tell them she was lying. I don’t care how you do it. She’s your friend—you have to make her realize what the stakes are for you. For your family. Your children.”

Dan is still muttering away, so I leave him to it.

I’m shocked when Polly answers on the first ring.

“Emmy. I hear congratulations are in order.” Her voice is jagged.

“Polly,” I start, my voice shaking, “you know I love you. I would never want to hurt you. I am so sorry. About the email, I—”

“So nice of you to finally phone about that, Emmy. It makes me feel so valued as a friend, you know. One of your tribe. That’s what you all call one another, isn’t it? I learned that at Coco’s party.” She pauses. “Does that make you their chief?” She laughs coldly.

“You are phoning to check how I am doing, after my three miscarriages? The ones that I spent so long agonizing over whether I should tell you about because I didn’t want to make you feel terrible about that abortion all those years ago, or burden you when you were pregnant, or overload you when you had a newborn. Or is there something else you wanted to talk about? Funny, now I think about it, this is the first time you’ve called me in years.

“I suppose you never felt you needed to pick up the phone,” she goes on. “I could keep up with you by flicking through the little snapshots of your life you so graciously share online, like one of your followers, one of your fans, couldn’t I? But did you never wonder how I was? What I was up to? Never feel the need to check in? Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m asking. Clearly not.

“You know, the reason I insisted on coming to Coco’s party was because it was the only way I could think of to actually see you. And those people, Emmy—those people are awful. You do know that, don’t you? I only started chatting to that journalist because I couldn’t bear being blanked again when whoever I was talking to realized I wasn’t anybody important or useful.”

“You met the person who wrote this at my party? Who?” I demand.

“Jess Watts. The freelance journalist who interviewed you for the Sunday Times. She saw me standing by myself and felt sorry for me, I think. She took my number because she said she’s always looking for quotes from English teachers for one thing or another. Anyway, when they announced your new show, she called to say she was writing a profile piece on you for the Mail on Sunday and could she get some quotes. She started telling me about how your story had moved her, how important it was for other women going through the same thing that you had opened up about your own pain and grief. Had you always been such a survivor? she wanted to know. When I said I had no idea what she was talking about, she asked if I wanted to see the video the BBC had emailed her, as a bit of background, some context for the piece. I watched it cold, Emmy. Can you imagine what that felt like?”

I say nothing.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Emmy. I’m genuinely curious, at this point in our friendship, even after all these years. Can you actually imagine what that felt like? Or have you finally become 2D, like your photos?”

“I can explain, Pol, I just wasn’t thinking. The director wanted to hear a personal experience, and yours was so powerful, I just knew that it needed to be shared.” I can hear my tongue stumbling over the words.

“It wasn’t your story, Emmy. You don’t get to make that decision. They were my dead babies, not yours. Just like it would not have occurred to me for a minute to start talking to that journalist about your abortions. Not for your sake. Not for Dan’s sake. Not even for Coco’s or Bear’s. But because I happen to believe there are still some things that are personal, that are private. Because I happen to believe there are some stories that aren’t mine to tell.

“I always gave you the benefit of the doubt, you know. Before. I never got angry when you canceled or turned up late. Tried not to be hurt at the endless posts about your amazing crew of humans or all the banging on about the ‘mamas’ who changed your life, tried not to ask myself what exactly that made me. But when I saw that video . . . I mean, Jesus Christ, Emmy. And when Jess called back, I couldn’t help myself. I just told her the truth. She said she knew there was something off about you that day she came to interview you and Dan. Something cold, disengaged. All your stories were too pat, too polished, she said. That’s because they’re just words, aren’t they, to you? Just content—isn’t that what you people call it? Nothing has any meaning anymore, unless it’s public, unless it’s out there for other people to read about. You’re not a person anymore, Emmy. You’re just a phony caption and a posed photo. A fucking invention. I hope this is a wake-up call.”