People LIke Her(67)
It took Irene to remind me, as my finger hovered over delete, quite how much money I would have to pay back, how many of the big brands I was contracted to would call in the lawyers the second I stepped away from my social media and could no longer flog their toilet paper or Tshirts or cars. And anyway, who would it help now, to implode my entire career? Not Polly, not my family.
So while Dan continued, visibly disgusted with me, to dole out blame and recrimination, Irene spent all day Sunday helping me out of the hole, sitting in our kitchen coming up with a defense for the indefensible. I was too exhausted, too ashamed, to do anything other than limply agree to everything she said.
I could not, under any circumstances, admit that I had deliberately stolen Polly’s experience as my own, or anything even approaching that. Honesty was my thing. She toyed aloud with the idea of me explaining that it was the sort of mistake you make when your heart is just too big. That this is the danger inherent in taking on board the trials, the struggles, the anguish of so many other mothers: their pain had become indistinguishable from my own. Then Irene had a better idea.
“She’s telling the truth,” says my agent icily. “Yes, the words in that clip may be Polly’s, but it was an honest mistake. Emmy recorded herself on video reading Polly’s email first as she needed to make sure the lighting was right, that the angle of the camera worked. She tried to rehearse with the words she had written about her own experience, but every time she tried, she broke down. She knew that it would be so emotionally draining to share her own story that she would only be able to manage one take. Sadly, her PA, Winter, emailed you the wrong video. Simple human error.” She sits back in her chair, looking pleased with herself.
“We had no idea you had the wrong one, of course, let alone that you would share it with anyone, until the Mail on Sunday called. Of course Emmy has been through that heartache. There is nobody who understands the pain better—that’s why she agreed to present the documentary.”
“I knew there would be a simple explanation!” says Josh triumphantly, a little pathetically. “Emmy, you just need to tell everyone that, maybe on your Instagram feed?”
“You can tell everyone whatever you like, Emmy.” David pulls a face as if my name has left a nasty aftertaste. “We’ll be announcing that the show will go ahead, but with ivfandangels, and that we have no further plans to work with Mamabare because we are as appalled by your behavior as everyone else.”
“And what do you think the optics of that will be, David? When you force Emmy’s hand and she gives the exclusive interview that every newspaper wants? She’d have to say that she was pitted against another mother in pain, backed into a corner by a male director, male producer, and male researcher, to bare her soul to win a job she so desperately wanted,” says Irene, looking genuinely interested at what his response might be. “It sounds quite manipulative when you say it like that, doesn’t it? Feels like that could turn into a bit of a scandal.”
Irene pauses for a moment to let this sink in.
There is a shuffling of papers, some throat-clearing, what looks like a little doodling. No one is making eye contact with anyone else. For the first time in an hour, even David seems to have nothing to say for himself.
“So how about this,” Irene says as she looks about her. This tiny woman, commanding the attention of a roomful of men, some of whom are nearly twice her age. She is quite something to behold—definitely someone you want on your side in a crisis.
“If you don’t want the job to go to Emmy, that is your call. But we will have a clean parting of the ways,” she says decisively. “Which I will manage.”
The room remains silent as everyone waits to see how everyone else will react.
It is David who eventually speaks first.
“Fine. But however you handle it, don’t drop us any further in it and do it today,” he says, getting abruptly up from his chair. “I think I’ve had enough of you Instapeople now.”
It dawns on me as we walk back down Regent Street toward Irene’s office that she never intended to save the show. It was never going to make her that much money. Her priority is protecting her bottom line.
“Right, Emmy. Here’s what you’re going to do,” she says, sitting behind her desk and looking me up and down in the way a headmistress might after discovering cigarettes in your school bag. “And let me be honest before I even start: This is nonnegotiable. You either do what I say, or you’ll have to find yourself another agent.
“You see that?” She points to her PA, who has been on the phone since we walked in. “Since Sunday morning, we have had almost every brand you work with on the line. A handful have dropped you already. Those that haven’t are seriously considering it. This is not about your fans—they are so loyal they wouldn’t unfollow if you committed a murder on Instagram Live—it’s about the money. And unless we sort this out, you—we—will not be making any more of it. You have to serve up an explanation, make your apology, and then disappear until it blows over. No advertiser is ever going to touch you again otherwise.”
Her plan is pretty simple. We use the photo, the one I have as my screen saver, of Coco holding a newborn Bear. First I share that, with a long post, written as an open letter to my oldest friend, Polly, explaining exactly what Irene told the BBC—but that I would still, for personal reasons, be backing out of the show. That I have, in fact, suffered from similar misfortunes as her but have never shared them with anyone before, apart from Dan, that the wrong video was sent, that I never meant for anybody to see it, that I deeply regret the hurt and upset I have caused, etcetera.