Steffi
There’s nothing like the London Underground to remind you that the world doesn’t care about you, even on your most dramatic days. It’s never ceased to amaze me, how eyes-down, disinterested , this city has been whenever I’ve publicly fallen apart in it. Weeping at Liverpool Street station after Mike dumped me, tube after tube swooshing to a stop, people spilling out, clocking the sobbing woman on a bench and then pretending it’s not happened as they rush past. No, London doesn’t care when your heart is breaking, and it apparently doesn’t care if your life is soaring either. This morning I feel like, surely, there should be some kind of parade in my honour. With elephants wearing tiaras. But when I skip off the sweaty bus, and descend the manky steps of Mile End station, there’s just fuggy air that tastes of lung cancer, and no elephants. Thankfully, it’s pretty empty this early, as I wilt onto a bench and pointlessly fan my face. It’s uncomfortably hot and I feel my makeup sweat off, but my good mood can’t be sidelined. I tap dance as I wait for the squeak and roar of the tube pulling in. I get out my phone and re-read the emails. Nothing more has come in yet, but I know it will. This book is going to be huge. These deals are going to be huge. Rosa is going to be huge. And, most importantly – as I’ve remortgaged my flat to make this all happen – my agency is now going to be huge. How huge is up to how I play the next two weeks, and I groan out loud at the thought of today’s shower.
The tube hisses in and I stride on board, pulling my skirt around me as I sit down so I don’t get flea bites. I tap my foot as we jolt through the hot black air. It’s good not to have phone signal for a while. It gives me a chance to calm the fuck down. I won’t check my phone until I’m on the train, I decide. I need to reset my nervous system so I don’t send my life-changing emails in BLOCK CAPS. We screech into Bank and I hop off, mosey along the tunnels towards the northern line, grin inanely at a busker and toss two quid into his guitar case. He nods and smiles back and I want to gambol like a lamb, I’m so excited. Another tube down to London Bridge and I check my watch. I’ve honed it to perfection. I have precisely enough time to have a wee, get a good coffee, and browse the station bookshop to put all my clients’ books on the front table. I allow myself to get nostalgic as I amble around the concourse, collecting my goods and waiting for my platform to get called. When the Little Women moved to London, scattered around the city like dropped coins, we’d always meet at London Bridge for our catch ups. In fact, Charlotte and I sat on that very bench, off our faces drunk, eating Leon with our fingers and singing the Pocahontas soundtrack all the way through until many people joined in. We were all dementedly living a Bridget Jones fantasy and were excited by tourist traps like Borough Market. The four of us would clip-clop towards South Bank, past the money shots of the Tate Modern, the bouncing bridge, and St Paul’s twinkling on the water. We’d occasionally meet at the National Theatre to watch plays Nicki and Charlotte pretended to understand while Lauren and I sniggered through drunk. We’d pour into Wagamama, dressed like we were in Sex and the City , making a tiny bowl of noodles last ages, cutting one bao bun into four tiny mouthfuls because we knew they were the cool things to eat, but we were too broke to order one each. Lauren, Charlotte and I would bemoan our dating hardships over the cheapest bottle of red wine while Nicki nodded sympathetically (smugly, in my opinion). Then we’d be too pissed to remember how broke we were and end up getting cocktails at the top of the OXO tower, asking strangers to take our pictures. Look at us, young, and in the best city in the world, making it somehow, even though we’re English graduates, spat out into the worst job market in twenty years. It was so much easier to be friends back then. Maybe I’m misremembering it, but I swear even Nicki and I got on back then. The Matt thing wasn’t such a big deal ( to her, anyway ) until they got engaged. I think that’s when she realised we’d both permanently be in her life, as a permanent reminder of how they met. I went from dear former uni housemate to unwanted albatross that she needed rid of. Thankfully Charlotte and Lauren were having none of it. ‘It’s just a phase,’ Lauren promised me, clasping my hand. ‘She’ll get over whatever it is. We will always be here for each other, I promise.’ I held on tight to the Little Women, and they held on tight to me. Although it’s not been a phase, and Nicki has been a bitch to me for years now. I really have felt like Amy since. I bet, in Nicki’s warped brain, she thinks Matt is Laurie or something. Do what you must do to keep things fresh when you’ve been shagging the same man since university. But leave me and my best friends out of it.
My platform’s announced, and I’m so desperate to check my phone, I practically run up the escalator, almost spilling my iced coffee. The train’s blissfully air-conditioned and blissfully empty. I fall, relieved, onto a seat, spreading my legs out to let my sweaty knee-pits dry, and close my eyes as London slips away behind me. I last about 30 seconds before I snap my eyes back open, grasping for my phone. No news. Agh. I’m frustrated my zen-like patience hasn’t been rewarded.
I pull up Lauren’s number.
:
I’m on the train and it’s running on time. Miracle of miracles.
Thanks again for driving me to the arse end of nowhere. There better be gin, that’s what I say!!!
I see she’s online and she replies right away.
Lauren:
K
I pull a face. That’s a bit weird. Just K? Did she read too much into my gin jokes and think I’m being bitchy about Nicki? No. She knows I like to keep the peace (unlike Nicki) . She’s probably just got the baby in one arm, I reassure myself. They are demanding little creatures, as everyone likes to constantly tell me, like I cannot possibly understand unless I have one myself because I’m selfish, no doubt. That’s what people think. I can’t understand caring for people, and the burden of it, even after looking after Mum right until her dire last days. Nope. Unless it’s your own child, caring for someone doesn’t make you caring.
I shake my head, surprised by myself. That ‘K’ has really wound me up it appears. This is Lauren. She loves me. It’s been so damn long since I’ve seen her that I’ve forgotten Lauren always means well. She’s as sunny as the outfits she wears. We’re just misfiring because we’ve not seen each other in ages. Today will be a reminder of how tight we are – even if we’re all in such different places right now.
My phone pins, alerting me to an incoming email and blood rushes into my fingertips.
Breathe, . Breathe. The train hurtles through a tunnel and I can’t tell if that’s making my ears ring, or the anticipation of seeing what’s come in next. And, when I see the name on the email, I swear an eardrum explodes.
‘No way,’ I say to myself. ‘No way. No. Oh my God. Oh my God.’
It’s from Nina Baldwin. The Nina Baldwin. A Hollywood darling, who, after turning 25, got fed up of there being no roles for older women or minorities so set up her own production company. Since then, everything she’s touched has turned to rose gold. She’s become her own conveyor belt of success. She options great books, turns them into great shows, then, as an added bonus, usually makes these books her monthly choice in her book club that has over 30 million followers . . . so, of course, when the show airs – the book and the show do supremely well.
And there’s her name. In my inbox.
Hi
I know it’s totally unorthodox to email on a Saturday – though it’s technically the middle of Friday night over here in La La Land. Anyway, when a book like BLOOD MOON comes along, I know you have to act fast. , I am blown away by it. I want to option it immediately and BLOOD MOON is exactly the project a streaming platform I work with is looking for. I can just see myself playing Cassandra – it’s the part of dreams! Do you need a formal offer over the weekend, or can this wait until Monday? I swear She Believed She Could Productions is the perfect home for this. I swear we will do it proud. I’ve CC’d in my lawyers to pretend this is vaguely official, but, truly, from a personal place, I NEED this book. I will do anything. It’s perfect. Perfect. It’s been an honor to read it, and I cannot wait to hear back from you.
Happiest of days and hope the sun is shining over there
Nina Baldwin xxx
My ears pop as we roar out of the tunnel and my sweaty palms smudge my phone screen. It’s weird what you focus on when your entire life changes. I find myself muttering, Wow, Nina Baldwin uses kisses in work emails. Who knew?
Then I drop my phone to the ground. I stand up.
Fuck.
OK.
This has never happened. Even with my biggest books at Slick Agency. I’ve never had Nina Baldwin bite. I never thought she even saw my submissions. Nina Baldwin rarely-to-never bites – she’s so sharp, she only picks the super bestsellers. She’s like the Willy Wonka of Hollywood and has minimal golden tickets to hand out a year. Giddy euphoria fills me up, and, it’s just as well the air con is on max and the carriage is empty, because I erupt into an adrenaline sweat. I air punch. I pick up my phone and kiss it. I squeal, I thump my chest in delight, I . . .
. . . I miss Mum so much I think I’m about to be sick.
Because I’m already about to call her to share this, to glory in it with her. My success is hers after all. But she won’t pick up. I wilt back on my seat and hold my heart through my dress, like she did when I was younger.
There, there, you ’ re going to be alright, I ’ m here.
Except she’s not here. Not now. Not ever.
I sigh again, clench and release my palms. The grief starts to drain away, back to where it dwells. The wave has crashed, the waters are calming down. It’s been four years now. I smile and hear her voice whisper.
You did it, . All by yourself, you did it. Just like I knew you could.
I let happiness return, with its now tender edge of bittersweet. Lauren will be thrilled. I can tell her the second I get off the train. That’s something. She’ll definitely have a lot more to say than ‘K’ about this. And she’ll get the bittersweet nature of the good news. One of the few memories I have of Mum’s funeral is the grasp of her hand in mine, whispering to me, ‘She was so proud of you, , so proud.’ And now this . . .
Oh Christ. Nina Baldwin!
I laugh and bite my fist. Oh, Nina. If only you knew my agency is run entirely from my one-bedroom flat overlooking a graveyard where a man with mental health problems climbs into my bins at least once a week, and just stands there, quite happily, sucking his thumb. If only you knew that my assistant Grace Shadowfax is fictional. She’s just an email address I made up because I can’t afford a real assistant yet. Grace is so efficient she’s already been headhunted by Eagle fucking Publishing. I know, at some point, I’m going to have to let everyone know Grace Shadowfax isn’t real. People will soon expect Grace to come to parties and pitches and meetings. But I can’t out Grace as non-existent until I’m a huge success and she’s just a funny side story of my giant success.
Grace, you’re being outed.
This is it. I’m going to be huge.
HI NINA BALDWIN.
OK, how to play this? I put a finger to my temple to calm myself down. Legally, I have to present every deal to Rosa and let her decide. But, she’d be mad to turn down Nina. However, if Nina FUCKING Baldwin, is biting, this means other major studios will too. So, Christ, I’m going to have to play major Hollywood studios off one another, and also let the publishers know about Nina’s interest. This will cause international ripples. The UK market will go mad, now the US will too. This will bounce into the German market, the French, Spanish . . . I can see it all now. Multiple auctions in multiple countries. I’m not going to sleep for a week, but, by the end of it, if I’ve done my job properly, she’ll be a multi-millionaire. She’s going to lose her mind! She’s on twenty something grand at a tiny literacy charity. She’s living in a flat share in Brixton with six other housemates. She was late to our first breakfast meeting, apologising as she’d had to wait 40 minutes for the shower to be free. Oh, Rosa, babe. Such startling good things are coming for her. She really will lose her mind. News this big cripples authors. They get overwhelmed. Can never write a second book. She’s going to need a lot of my emotional support. Yikes – who’s going to emotionally support me through all this? I soothe another pang for Mum as we hurtle into another tunnel. I’m glad I’m about to see Lauren. I can happy-dump all on her – get it out of my system before the baby shower. Honestly, how the hell do I have to attend a baby shower today? I have so, so, so, much to do.
We shoot out of the tunnel and my phone pings again. I grasp it up, already grinning. Maybe it’s another studio? Or another editor? Nothing in my phone can bring bad news today.
Or . . . so I think.
A message from Jeremy. Initially, I get a flutter of excitement. It must be his plans for date five. I get a small pulse between my legs as I remember date four. Our bodies slick with sweat, the taste of salt on his skin, the windows of his flat wide open for everyone in London to hear us.
Jeremy:
Morning Steff. How’s it going? That big submission coming off? I hope so. You’re a really good person and I really want good things to happen for you.
He’s sent it but I see he’s still typing. ‘What the fuck?’ I mutter. My heart’s twitching. This isn’t a normal message, or a flirty message. It’s weird. I ’ m a ‘good person ’ ? What’s that got to do with date five? I rub my heart again as I wait for the second message to arrive.
Jeremy:
I know you’re flat out with work this week, but, to be honest, it’s been useful for me to have some time to think. This really sucks, Steff, I’m sorry but I don’t think this has a future. You’re amazing. You know I think you’re amazing. But the whole kids thing . . . I’ve realised this week it is a dealbreaker for me. Sorry. I would call but I know how swamped you are. Sorry again x
I shake my head and let out an exasperated noise as date five with Jeremy turns to vapour. It hurts instantly, and more than it should, considering how many times I’ve been here before. I know the Little Women think I’m this hardened, wisened dater, out having exciting dates with exciting men, with the sort of good sex that can only come from the smell of a stranger’s fresh pheromones . . . But, holy hell, it’s also quite painful and lonely and soul-destroying at times too. Of course, Jeremy’s sent this message now. Today. The best day of my career to date. Of course, I have to be reminded of my malfunction right now – keep my ego in check.
The whole kids thing . . . I ’ ve realised it ’ s a dealbreaker for me . . .
Weird how it’s always after I’ve had sex with a man that they decide it’s a dealbreaker. No matter how much I delay sleeping with them, they’re always like, ‘ Wow, it ’ s so refreshing to date a women in her thirties who’s not desperate to have kids, ’ right up until the moment they ejaculate inside of me. Then, suddenly, it’s like, ‘ Actually, the child-free thing is weird. I want children after all. ’ Like, I dunno, they’re fucking resentful that the spunk in the condom they’re still wearing has been rejected by me.
I lay my head against the grainy train window and keep rubbing my heart.
Maybe I ’ m just bad at sex . . .
Then why do men always tell me the opposite?
I was there with Jeremy. I didn’t imagine it. The noises he made. I’m not bad at sex.
Oh my God, for actual fuck’s sake. How dare he send this message right now? How dare he ruin this?
No. I refuse. I will not let him ruin this.
What a coward too . . . sending a message. This man thinks he can be a father when he can’t even dump a woman face to face? The actual cheek of it – this dysfunctional selfish cretin thinking he has any right reproducing.
I am so sick of this happening.
How many times am I going to have to relive this before I meet a man who wants what I want?
Last week, I read this great article about being child-free that summed it up so much. That, initially, you’re called a ‘unicorn’ because it’s so rare and brilliant to be a woman in your early thirties but not desperate to get knocked up. When the situation inevitably comes up around date three, ( I now know not to sleep with anyone until at least date three unless I ’ m very very horny) as it sort of has to when you’re dating in your thirties, I can visibly see men’s faces relax when I tell them I’m not looking to start a family. One literally, theatrically, mopped his brow (didn’t shag him, obviously). But the relief is short-lived. Once they realise they’re out of the frying pan of quick-quick hurry up, say you love me, move in with me, propose please, you cannot fucking waste my time, I ’ m 32 don ’ t you know, it ’ s actually basically against my human rights to not be sure about committing when every egg I ovulate each month basically crumbles to dust, GET ME PREGNANT YOU FUCKING MAN CHILD or go date a 23-year-old who wasn ’ t alive when the Spice Girls were Number One . . . Yeah, anyway, once the heat is off them, they have a few weeks of feeling free and thinking I’m the best thing since fucking . . . kimchi . . . and then it switches. It turns to suspicion.
Oh, this article put it so well. ‘Childfree and free to be pissed off.’ What was that paragraph? The reason I re-shared it, I felt so seen. I sort of wanted all my exes to see it and realise what shits they are.
‘My friends keep telling me to be patient. That soon all the divorcees will be joining the dating pool. Men who’ve had their children, and it’s broken the marriage apart, and how exciting to meet a sexy unicorn woman who doesn’t want her own kids. Perfect. And I’m like . . . “Excuse me. The whole point of being child-free is just that . . . I don’t want children. Let alone to look after someone else’s fucking children every other week.” Also, I’m not particularly attracted to men who leave the mothers of their children. Unless they’ve been chased out of the house at knifepoint (and, to be honest, with weaponised incompetence being as bad as it is, even then I can hardly blame a knife-wielding wife), then I simply cannot get a lady-boner for someone who left the person who grew an actual human for them, almost died pushing it out, and then sacrificed their career, identity, tits and pension raising it . . . But, oh yay, come into my dating pool. Let me count my spoils. Mmm mother-leavers. Lucky selfish child-free me!’
God, I loved that bit. I mean, there were other bits of the article I didn’t agree with, and the author didn’t seem particularly nice. But the stuff about the dating was spot on. And here we are. Dumped.
I sigh and return my head to the window, watching the growing suburbs flash by. It hurts. This message really hurts. I can’t believe someone called Jeremy has made me hurt this much. Nobody gets their heart broken by a Jeremy . Not that it’s broken. My heart is so toughened these days it’s like a slab of overcooked beef. Jeremy will be forgotten this time next year, just like all the other losers before him who came, saw, lied to me about not wanting kids, conquered, then fucked off and then implied I was the selfish one. But it stings it’s happened today. On the cusp of everything taking off – always there to remind me only one thing is allowed to go right in my life at the same time. Well, if it was a choice between Jeremy or launching the best boutique agency in the UK, Jeremy, you can fuck off quite frankly. I’m going to make a million pounds in the next 72 hours, just you wait.
:
Aaaand, weirdly enough, grown men who can’t handle having an adult conversation with a woman they’ve slept with are *my* dealbreaker, so I guess we’re even. You’re a child to do this by text. Speaking of the child issue, let’s hope, if you ever have a daughter, they sleep with men who have more respect for women then you’ve just shown me.
I send it and then block him just as we head into another tunnel. I promise myself to be over it by the second we emerge, and, for about seven seconds, as the train roars in my ears, I close my eyes and let myself feel the pain. Then the world turns brighter behind my eyelids. I open them and he’s in the past, alongside all the others. Now, Rosa. Blood Moon .
Nina Baldwin.
What. A. Day.
I need to call her right away. That will cheer me up. Honestly, telling clients they’re going to become published authors is literally the best part of my job. What other careers mean you get to make people’s dreams come true, other than, I dunno, TV game-show hosts? And this won’t be any phone call. Rosa’s going to be richer than she knows what to do with. She can write for a living forever – not that she’ll even need the money after this book. I bring up her number, an authentic smile truly on my face now, and I bash ‘call’. An even better surprise as it’s a Saturday. I told her we wouldn’t hear anything until Monday at the earliest.
My phone beeps instead of connecting. I frown and see I’ve got no reception in this particular blip of suburban hell. The reception bar loads up and I try again, but, nope, we go through a fourth tunnel. I sigh with frustration. I don’t want this phone call to be ruined by bad coverage. I also won’t be able to do it at Nicki’s. I’ll have to wait til I get to the train station and call Rosa then, before meeting Lauren. It won’t take more than ten minutes, and I’ll treat her to an iced coffee from Starbucks to say sorry.
Lauren won’t mind a ten-minute delay, will she? Ten minutes is nothing.